Fifteen Candles and Bloodstains
by Nahaliel
Summary: The last thing Peter needs is to deal with a fifteen year old criminal, caught slinking around an art museum at 3 am. But he soon realizes the kid might be around for a while. And surprisingly, that's okay with him. Just another case for the FBI White Collar Division. Right?
1. Chapter 1

**_Hi, there. This is a story I've been thinking about for a while. It's already been done before, but I'm hoping to do something new with it. A little warning before you start reading: it's going to be really angsty, and might get violent in further chapters._**

* * *

_He just wanted it to stop. The banging, the cursing, the sound of glass shattering. Neal Caffrey was eight. Knees pulled up to his chest and mop of wavy brown hair ducked low, he sat, shaking, under his desk. It was where his mom had told him to go. To_ _hide. Her voice came out as that quiet, panicked whisper._

_"Neal, baby, do what mommy says... Please, baby, you go hide under your desk and don't come out-" she cut off, whirled around as the dull, heavy footsteps climbing the stairs stopped. There was the sound of boots scuffing on the other side of the front door, the keys turning in the lock._

_"Neal, go!"_

_Neal knew what was happening outside his closed bedroom door. Somewhere in the back of his mind, guilt stabbed at his conscience. He needed to protect his mom. Shane Caffrey, the dirty cop, his father, had staggered into the shabby apartment, empty beer bottle slipping from his clumsy grasp. Neal could hear his mom pleading over and over again, crying, sobbing. And he could do nothing to stop it. There was the loud crash of another bottle shattering, then silence. Neal curled further into the corner under his desk and cried._

* * *

_Present day_

Neal was small for his age. At fifteen, his shoulders were slowly filling out though and his arms slowly getting stronger. His handsome face was lit by bright, blue eyes, a lock of his wavy brown hair hanging rebelliously over his pale forehead.

"Moz, I'm not too sure this is a good idea." Neal eyed the young man across the table from him carefully.

"Neal, when have I ever sent you into something risky?" He replied, pushing a pair of thick rimmed glasses back into place on the bridge of his nose. Neal raised an eyebrow at the bald man. Or was his hair just really short? Neal had never been able to tell. Mozzie sighed.

"Don't answer that. But listen, Neal. This job is perfectly safe. Trust me."

Neal did trust him. In fact, he was the only one Neal had ever trusted after his mother's death. His father had soon lost custody and Neal had been placed in foster care. Mozzie had caught Neal one day, trying to pick his pockets. He'd been impressed by the kid's smooth talk, and how he'd almost gotten away with taking Mozzie wallet. _Nobody _beat Moz at lifting a wallet. Until Neal. He'd taken Neal under his wing, taught him a few tricks of the "trade". The two soon found their common interest in art. And Neal soon discovered Mozzie's unkanny knack for...robbing art museums. When Moz got back from a job, Neal would eagerly listen to all the details.

Then, Mozzie had asked him to tag along for one of them.

Neal had been thrilled at first. But after turning the idea over in his head, Neal had come up with all the things that could go so horribly wrong. Moz had laughed. The kid thought like a con, considering every single possibility. Moz sighed looking back across the table at the kid. He was distracted again, staring absently out the window of the coffee shop. The kid had seemed distracted and kind of fidgety lately, but he'd chalked it up to the stress of joining him on his next late night museum visit. He cleared his throat and Neal snapped out of his reverie.

He leaned forward in his chair and peered intently at the teenager. Neal backed up a little.

"What?" He said apprehensively, thrown off by Mozzie's scrutiny.

"What's going on, Neal?" Fear flashed briefly in those big blue eyes. Neal cleared his throat nervously and fidgeted in his seat.

"Neal?" Mozzie wondered what could had the kid so on edge.

"M-my dad," he blurted out.

"What about your dad?" Mozzie knew little about Neal's father. But judging by the scars he'd seen all across Neal's back and upper arms the time he'd had to take Neal to the ER a couple years back, he was sure, sadly, that Neal was better off where he was now.

"He's convinced them- at the foster home- that he can take care of me again..."

Moz sat stunned. "What? They won't let that happen."

Neal worried his bottom lip between his teeth and drummed his fingers on the table. "I don't know, Moz..."

"You could stay with me." He said. Neal shook his head and smirked.

"Moz, they'll never let you. Society doesn't even know you exist."

Mozzie raised his eyebrows at Neal and gave him a sly smile.

"Oh. Money, I get it."

"Neal, with this job, we'll have more than enough to do anything we want."

He couldn't go back to living with his father. He was stronger than he was back then. But he couldn't. He just couldn't. Neal gave a resigned sigh.

"Okay, Moz, I'll do it," he said, even as an unnatural feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Here's chapter 2. First off, thank you for the reviews and all the story alerts. I can't believe how many people are already following this story. Thank you so much. The story is going to start to make more sense; I'll fill out all the blanks soon. I made up the name of the museum Neal and Mozzie robbed. Enjoy..._**

* * *

_Three days later_

"You have got to be kidding me," Peter Burke breathed, starting the surveillance footage over again.

The screen displayed the skinny build of a kid, looking to be barely over the age of 15. The tape was from two nights ago, footage from the security cams at the Sarah Carver Museum. The video was short, but it had caught the form of the young boy skidding down a hallway with what seemed to be a rolled up canvas under his arm. Peter leaned into the screen as he watched. The kid had spotted the camera and his eyes momentarily locked on it. Peter paused the video and studied the kid's face. He looked scared. The fear in his wide blue eyes shone bright. And somehow Peter couldn't shake that gaze from his mind. It was imploring and sad, like the kid had seen too much for his age. Pleading.

Peter tore his eyes away from the screen and looked up at his two partners, standing in front of his desk.

"Who is this kid?"

"Neal Caffrey," Diana answered, handing him a file. "He's got a history with social services, been in and out of foster homes since his eleventh birthday."

In all Peter's years at the White Collar Division of the NYC FBI office, he'd come across some odd things. But this was a first.

"He's barely 15." Peter said, more to himself than to his colleagues.

"His mom died when he turned eleven, his dad lost custody after that for domestic violence," Jones spoke up.

"We called the foster home, boss," Diana added, "Caffrey hasn't been seen there for nearly two days."

Peter's thoughts went back to the canvas under the kid's arm. "Do we know what went missing?"

"A Van Gogh painting from their French impressionists wing," Diana supplied. Peter smirked. For a teenager, this Neal kid had taste.

Diana's phone rang.

"Barrigan," she answered. Peter watched her frown, mutter a few "uh-huhs" then hang up.

"A woman spotted a kid matching Caffrey's description by the Sarah Carver Museum twenty minutes ago."

Peter raised his eyebrows. This was definitely going to be interesting. He knew for a fact art thieves didn't go back to a museum they'd robbed, let alone three days later.

"Let's go," Peter said, retrieving his suit coat from the back of his chair.

* * *

The three FBI agents drove to the museum, then split up on foot when they got there, Diana going to interview their tip, Peter and Jones to try to locate the kid. The two men headed around to the back of the museum. They walked along the metal fence surrounding the loading area, trained eyes carefully searching.

A low growl erupted from behind the fence. Peter and Jones jumped back as two massive guard dogs threw themselves at it, the metal clanging against their weight. They bared their teeth frighteningly, barking loud vicious howls at the two agents. Peter breathed a loud sigh and resumed his scan of the area.

Movement caught his eye and with a quick sign to Jones, the two made their way towards it. They stopped in the middle of the alley way, searching. The soudn of shuffling footsteps echoed through the small street and a skinny teenage boy with a mop of wavy brown hair stumbled out from behind a fire escape. Unfortunately, he took too long to register that the sight of the two guys with badges at their belt meant run, because one of them gripped him by the collar, and easily pulled him back.

"That's him, boss," Jones nodded to Peter, who let his hand fall from where it had been hovering, ready over his gun.

"Neal Caffrey?" Peter asked and the kid nodded.

The movement seemed off to Peter. It was uncoordinated and sluggish. The FBI agent bent slightly, studying the kid's face. He looked sick, Peter realized. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, his face white as a sheet except for the slight flush staining his cheekbones.

"C-can I help y-you?" The kid asked, words slightly slurred. Jones and Peter exchanged confused glances.

"Why don't you come with us," Peter said, gripping the kid's upper arm.

He didn't expect the kid to cry out. Peter quickly dropped his arm and took a closer look. He winced when he caught sight of the kid's hand. It was swollen and red between the thumb and index finger, and there was a circular row of deep little holes puncturing the skin, like teeth marks. It looked painful and badly infected.

"What happened to you?" Peter asked, trying to make eye contact with the kid.

Neal nodded over to the guard dogs still trying to tear the metal fence apart.

"G-got t-too cl-close..." He muttered. Peter noticed now that he was shivering from head to toe. Jones raised his eyebrows in alarm.

"Let's get back onto the main street, okay?" Neal simply nodded and Peter, taking hold of the kid's _other_ arm, led him back to the car.

* * *

Neal's hand hurt. His right hand. How was he going to draw? To paint? Who were these two guys anyway? He remembered the badges and the guns, but then again everything was kind of hazy. He knew he should never have let Mozzie talk him into this job. Nobody had warned him about the freakin' godzillas in the back. He was fast and agile, but not fast enough visibly, because one of the Rottweiler's had nearly bitten a chunk of his hand off as he had scrambled over the fence.

He'd woken up the next morning, feverish and alone in Mozzie's apartment, the latter having chosen this as a good moment to disappear from the face of the earth. The next day was worse, dreams mixing with reality, past with present. He'd stumbled out of the apartment when Mozzie failed to turn up again. He'd wandered the streets and somehow his far from coherent brain had guided him back to the museum.

Now, three days later, two men in suits were hauling him towards a grey Taurus. Alarm bells finally went off in his fever muddled brain as the two men pushed him to lean with his back against the car door. He made a break for it.

He didn't get very far however, because a) the FBI guy with sandy blond hair was real fast and b) his legs gave out eight feet into the sprint. He would have hit the pavement face first had the man not grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and hauled him upright. Then he had to drag him the impressive eight feet he'd run back to the car.

That's when Neal realized didn't feel so good. No, simply not feeling good was an understatement. The world spun, twisting shapes and people into an unidentifiable blur, his head pounding sickeningly. The ground seemed to dissolve under him. His vision went white, the sounds around him grew muffled. He felt someone manhandling him into a soft seat. Then the darkness hit.

* * *

The next thing Neal knew, he was staring blearily out a car window, his burning forehead pressed against the mercifully cool glass.

"Kid. Hey, kid," the FBI agent's voice brought him to awareness. He turned his head away from the window with great difficulty to face the man in the driver's seat. He was searching Neal's face, frowning slightly.

"You with me?" He asked, reaching over and placing a hand on Neal's forehead. Neal shrugged away from the touch as another wave of dizziness hit him and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Just hang on, we're almost at the hospital."_ Hospital? _That was not good at all.

Neal didn't have the time to panic before he lost consciousness again.

* * *

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_**And now for chapter 3. I want to give the biggest thank you to everyone who is following this story and everyone who has reviewed. I'm so excited so many people are enjoying this story.**  
_

_**Reminders and warnings: Shane Caffrey is Neal's dad. There's going to be some strong language and some violence at the beginning of this chapter.**_

**_Enjoy..._**

* * *

_"Neal!"_

_By the tone of his father's voice, Neal knew he was in trouble. And whatever he'd done this time, had his dad thoroughly ticked off. For a second, he debated on hiding under his desk again. He quickly pushed away the thought, he was almost 10 after all._

_"Neal, get the hell over here." the gruff voice boomed through the apartment._

_Neal shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way into the living room._

_"What's this?" His father spat. He stood in the middle of the cluttered room, a beer bottle in one hand, and a piece of paper in the other._

_A drawing._

_Neal swallowed hard. He'd left another drawing just lying around. He was usually very careful about keeping his drawings neatly tucked away under his bed. His father had never been keen on his passion for art. He'd always wanted his son to like sports and rough housing, not painting and visiting museums in fancy New York neighborhoods._

_"What the fuck is this?" He yelled, crushing the paper in his fist and throwing it at Neal's feet._

_"It's just a drawing, Dad," Neal said quietly, bending over to pick it up._

_"When will you ever listen?" Shane ground out, kicking the paper away and forcefully gripping a fistful of his son's shirt._

_"Girls draw. You're a fucking boy, Neal. I've had enough of this. You too good for baseball, is that it? If I ever see something like this again, you're gonna wish you were never born." He viciously backhanded Neal across the face and threw him to the floor. Then he stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him._

_Neal dragged himself upright, bringing a hand to his split lip. The dark crimson streaming down his fingertips in little rivers made him dizzy. Sniffling quietly in the privacy of the empty apartment, he gently straightened the crumpled piece of paper._

_It was a beautiful life-like pencil sketch of a girl about Neal's age. Her name was Lily and she was the prettiest girl Neal had ever met._

_A tear hit the page under her left eye, smudging the pencil all the way down her perfectly shadowed cheek. Neal pulled his legs up to his chest and lay his head on his knees. His mom found him in that same position coming home from work a couple hours later._

* * *

Peter didn't know why he was doing this. Why_ was_ he sitting in this kid's hospital room? This kid he'd met only a few hours ago, this kid he hadn't known existed until this morning.

Neal looked even worse under the harsh hospital lighting. His skin was pasty white and he had dark circles under his eyes. His right hand was now heavily bandaged and an IV line snaked up his other arm. His chest rose and fell a little too rapidly for comfort. Peter imagined he'd been bitten by one of those guard dogs two days back, and with no proper medical care, the wound had got badly infected.

He had so many questions swirling through his head, so much he wanted to know about Neal. The truth was, the kid was really starting to intrigue Peter. They didn't have much information on him. Just bits and pieces of his life, like the date of his mother's death or his father's history at the NYPD. Shane Caffrey had been a dirty cop, and kicked off the force just before Neal's mother died. From what he'd heard and read, Neal's father was a violent and cruel man, in no position to raise a child right, drowning in alcoholism and impulsiveness.

Peter sighed. When they'd got to the hospital, he'd had to carry the kid inside; he was barely coherent enough to lift his head off Peter's shoulder. They'd taken off his shirt and Peter had seen the scars. They were old scars, he could tell, dispersed every which way across his chest and upper arms. Peter's mind had wandered back to the look he'd seen in Neal's eyes on the video tape, the vibrant sadness, so vivid and so raw. To his surprise he had felt anger bubble up inside his chest. He found himself wanting to know the kid's story, and maybe even help him. Peter shook his head in disbelief at his own emotions. But still, he stayed, waiting for the kid to wake.

* * *

A soft moan came from the bed and Peter turned to see the kid's eyes fluttering.

"Neal?"

Neal recognized that voice. He'd heard it once before. It was steadying and reassuring. _Where was he? _His hand throbbed in a dull, aching rhythm and he felt light-headed and dizzy. Nonetheless, he cracked his eyes. There was a tall man standing over him, watching him with what seemed to be difficultly masked concern. The man didn't _seem _to mean any harm. What had him panic however, was the blue curtain and barren white surroundings that screamed hospital. He needed to get out.

"Whoa, take it easy," the man said, gently pushing him back against the pillow, as he struggled to sit up.

"Who are you?" Neal's voice came out as a strangled whisper.

"Special Agent Peter Burke. FBI White Collar unit."

A fed? If this guy didn't kill him, Moz definitely would. He was in so much trouble.

* * *

_Two days later_

Peter sat in his office, piecing together some of the info he'd gathered on Neal. He'd been caught once or twice for pick pocketing and for running away from the foster home but that was it. What really puzzled Peter was why the kid had suddenly decided to go from petty left to robbing an art museum. He couldn't help but wonder if someone had put him up to it. Stealing a French impressionist painting from an art museum didn't usually rank very high on a teenager's to do list.

His phone rang, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Burke."

"Agent Burke? This is Michaela Davidson, I'm a nurse at New York Presbyterian Hospital. Two days ago you brought in a patient by the name of Neal Caffrey. Would mind coming by? He's not being very...cooperative."

"I'm on my way," Peter said more gruffly than intended. Teens were such a handful.

When he got to the hospital, Neal was perched on the end of his bed, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his converse clad feet dangling over the edge.

"Hey, Neal. Going somewhere?" The kid whirled around at Peter's voice. He backed up just the slightest bit.

"Um, I- no..." He stammered. God, he really was out of it. Neal was used to sweet talking his way out of just about anything, and here he couldn't even put two decent words together.

Peter noticed his face was still white as a sheet and he looked to be barely able to hold himself upright. A nurse, who Peter guessed to be the Michaela he'd spoken to on the phone, walked into the room and positioned herself in front of Neal with her arms folded over her chest.

"Neal, you're not well enough to leave yet," she said, firmly, but eying Neal fondly.

"'M fine," Neal said, flashing a smile, that would have been quite charming for a 15 year old, had he not looked so ill.

Michaela sighed and turned to Peter. "Agent Burke, I can only let him go if I know he has a place to stay and someone that can watch him. He's in no condition to just wander off."

"I've got someplace to stay, I'll be fine at the foster home," Neal replied. The nurse and Peter stayed silent at this, a look of sadness briefly flashing in Michaela's eyes. They both knew the foster home would provide little comfort and care.

"He can stay with my wife and me," Peter blurted out. _Great_. The words had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. The brief look of hope that glimmered in Neal's eyes made his heart jump into his throat. _Jesus, you're going soft. _This was just some random kid, who not to mention, was the prime suspect in an ongoing criminal investigation. Michaela gave Peter a silent thank you and ran a hand through Neal's hair.

"You're off the hook this time, kiddo."

* * *

"El, I'm home," Peter called, holding the door open for Neal. Neal stumbled inside, Peter flinging out a hand and gripping his shoulder to keep him upright.

"Hi, hun-" she paused at the sight of the young boy standing in the hallway with her husband. She schooled her expression quickly though, and held out a hand. Neal awkwardly reached up with his left, so she switched and shook it.

"Hi, I'm Elizabeth, Peter's wife," she greeted him warmly. Her eyes were welcoming and gentle, reminding Neal of his mother.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Neal," Neal replied quietly, giving her a tired smile. Elizabeth gave Peter a worried look over Neal's head and he mouthed something along the lines of 'I'll explain later'.

"Let me show you to the guest room," Peter said, guiding Neal to the stairs and climbing up after him. Neal swayed slightly, and Peter found his hand hovering above the kid's shoulders, just in case. Neal all but collapsed onto the bed, and it took all the strength he had left for him to remain sitting.

"Why are you doing this?" he mumbled as Peter knelt down in front of Neal to help him get his shoes off. Why was he doing this? He really didn't know.

"Get some rest," Peter said, gently pushing Neal down so that his head lay against the pillow. He pulled the covers over him and turned to leave the room.

"Thanks, Peter," came Neal's quiet voice, muffled by the covers. Peter didn't have the heart to make some smart remark about how they weren't on a first name basis.

Yet.

* * *

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Now for chapter 4. I am so sorry for the wait; I seemed to have been suffering from a rather frustrating case of writer's block. Thank you so much for all the reviews and story alerts; your feedback and encouragement is so helpful and wonderful. A lot of Neal angst in this chapter. I'm not too sure about it, so your thoughts would be greatly appreciated. _**

**_Enjoy..._**

* * *

When Neal awoke the next morning, he had no idea where he was at first. There was no shouting or angry cursing and he couldn't hear the sounds of the street. There was no strong antiseptic smell either, just the comforting one of the fabric softener coming from the pillow he had his face pressed into. Neal sat up slowly, careful not to jostle his hand. He'd fallen asleep fully clothed, his Converse lay discarded next to the bed.

Now he remembered.

The museum theft gone wrong, the dogs, the hospital and coming here, to spend the night at a fed's house. He had no idea how he was going to get his way out of this one.

He made his way downstairs and into a nicely decorated living room. A yellow lab appeared out of nowhere wagging its tail happily. Neal flinched involuntarily as the dog jumped up, resting its paws on his knees.

"Satchmo, get down," a voice came from behind him. The dog-Satchmo apparently-got down and flopped its ears, looking very humanly guilty. Neal turned to see Elizabeth standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Good morning, Neal, how are you feeling?" she asked, and the question actually seemed genuine. That was something Neal hadn't heard in a long while.

"I'm better, thanks," he said, and surprisingly, it was true. He offered her a smile. Satchmo still sat before him, his golden tail thumping against the carpet. Neal reached out a hand and patted the dog's head. Not all dogs vowed to rip him apart, he decided.

"Well, why don't you come have some breakfast with me?" she guided him into the kitchen and sat him down at the table.

"Really, I don't want to over stay my welcome, you've already done so much-"

"Neal," Elizabeth stopped him short by laying a gentle hand on his forearm.

"We're more than happy to have you," she said with a fond smile, "Peter is at the foster home getting some of your things. You're going to stay with us for a while-if that's okay with you."

Neal sat there stunned. Why on earth would a _fed_and his wife take him in? "Yeah, it's okay," he stammered. El smiled again and got up to make breakfast.

There was the sound of the front door swinging open, and a golden blur zipped past the kitchen to bound into the entryway, barking happily.

"Hey, hun, I'm home," Peter's voice came from the hallway. He entered the kitchen carrying a blue duffel bag, Satchmo nipping playfully at his heels. Peter placed a kiss on El's lips and turned to Neal.

"Good morning, Neal, feeling better?" He peered intently at the teenager.

"I'm good. Thanks, Peter." Neal flashed him a winning grin.

"That's Agent Burke to you, kid," Peter said with a stern glare, placing the duffel bag on the table.

"Peter," El hissed, nudging her husband in the ribs. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he said grudgingly, and El stifled a giggle.

"Neal, why don't you go set up your stuff in the guest room? I'll call you when breakfast is ready."

God, she reminded Neal of his mother. The familiar cold and heavy grief settled in the pit of his stomach as he climbed the stairs, duffle bag in hand.  
He carefully closed the door behind him and threw the bag to the ground. Leaning heavily against the door, he slid to the carpeted floor and pulled his knees up to his chest.  
Neal knew that soon enough, Peter would be hauling him to the FBI headquarters and he would be thrown in juvi. He wished Mozzie were here. He couldn't get thrown in juvi.

He'd had a rather unfortunate encounter once with a social worker who hated his job and despised the kids he was assigned to even more. One time, Neal had been caught for pick pocketing. Instead of driving Neal back to the foster home after bailing him out, the man had dragged him to a juvi institute, one of the worst in New York City.

Gripping Neal by the collar, the guy had pulled him directly up to the metal fence surrounding the courtyard, behind which two boys about Neal's age were fighting, throwing sloppy punches at one another. The taller one had pulled something-a sharpened piece of plastic, from his pocket and slammed it into the other's stomach. The boy had crumpled to the floor, blood seeping through the waist of his jumpsuit. The social worker had simply tightened his grip on Neal's collar and forced him to look on as the kid lay agonizing on the floor for a good ten minutes before guards finally came rushing out. There was _so much_ blood.

"You pull another stunt like that, and I _will_ let them throw you in here, Caffrey," the man had hissed, too close to Neal's face, "And I won't hesitate for a second."

Neal's forehead dropped to his knees at the memory. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the black spots dancing before his vision to go away. The room seemed too small suddenly, like the walls were closing in on him. Much like the walls of his regressing freedom in life... He barely heard the knock on the door.

"Neal?"

Peter heard shuffling on the other side, then a muffled '_come in'._He opened the door and found Neal sitting cross legged on the floor, with the unopened duffel bag in his lap. The kid had a distant, haunted look in his eyes.

"Breakfast is ready if you want to come down."

Neal nodded with a hollow smile and made his way past Peter down the stairs. There it was again. That look of fear lurking in the deep blue ocean of Neal's eyes. Peter's gut clenched. Because in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to take away all the bad memories torturing Neal.

* * *

"It's time to go, Neal."

Peter didn't want to take Neal back to the office. He didn't want him to have to suffer through his and his fellow agents' interrogation about the Sarah Carver museum theft. Neal had been staying with Burkes for a week now. He was actually one of the kindest kids Peter had ever met. He didn't ask for anything, he even helped El around the house. Peter could tell Elizabeth had already grown quite fond of Neal. And truth be told, he was starting to grow on Peter too.

Neal slid quietly into the passenger seat and stared out the window for the better part of the drive. Every now and then, Peter would steal a glance over at the teenager. He didn't seem to take notice.

Neal did notice though. Peter kept looking over at him; his lips parting imperceptibly, like he was about to say something. But each time he seemed to think better of it, and his eyes slid back to the road.

They got stuck in grid lock traffic halfway to the office. Peter cursed softly and sat back. Heavy silence still reigned over the pair.

"Neal," Peter finally gave in. He took a deep breath and turned to face the kid. Neal was intently studying his shoes. He mumbled something along the lines of a _yeah,_ so Peter went on.

"You were caught on tape at the Sarah Carver museum a week ago. What were you doing there?"

Neal bit his lip, but stayed silent.

"Where's the painting you took, Neal?" Peter said more firmly. Neal turned to look at Peter, his big blue eyes shining fiercely.

"I didn't take it."

"You were caught on tape with it-"

"I don't have it! I was just holding it..." Neal could have kicked himself. Peter closed his eyes, shook his head.

"Did someone ask you to break into the museum?" Peter could see Neal grinding his teeth, the muscles in his jaws flexing, like the words were fighting against him to come out.

"Neal," Peter said more insistently. The tone of his voice caused Neal to look up. "Let me help you."

Neal swallowed hard. Why did he want to help him? Why would anyone want to help _him_?

"D-don't send me to juvi," Neal's voice came out as a shaky whisper. He cursed himself for sounding so weak, so desperate. Peter sighed and gave Neal's shoulder a squeeze.

"I'll do what I can, kid. Just cooperate, okay?"

Neal gave Peter a curt nod. Traffic loosened and before either knew it they were pulling up in front of the dull gray FBI building.

* * *

"Let me get this straight, _Mr. Caffrey_," Agent Max Thayer drawled, leaning nonchalantly against the slate gray wall of the interrogation room, "Stealing this painting was a bet?"

Neal nodded keeping an impassive face, but nails digging into the palms of his hands under the table. "Yes, sir."

"And who bet you to take the painting?" Thayer continued, circling the room. He stopped behind Neal's chair and curled his hands around the back of it. Neal locked eyes with the agent's through the one way mirror.

"Jake. Jake Crenshaw," he deadpanned. He was only half lying, right? Jake Crenshaw was one of Mozzie's aliases after all... But judging by the rather frightening smirk spreading across Agent Thayer's face, he wasn't buying Neal's story.

"If we bring in your friend Jake, will he give us the same story?"

"Yes," Neal answered confidently. He hadn't the slightest clue to where Moz was; the FBI sure as hell wasn't going to find him either.

Thayer hummed thoughtfully and went to stand in front of Neal. Flipping through the file on the table before him, something caught his eye. He looked it over for a few more seconds, then directed his hawk like stare back to Neal.

"Tell me, Neal, what does your father think about your friendship with Jake? Would he approve of his son taking such risky bets?"

On the other side of the one way mirror, Peter watched the color drain from Neal's face. His lips moved but no sound came out.

"Somehow I think Dad wouldn't be too proud, am I wrong?" Thayer jeered. "Why don't we call him and ask him what he thinks of his son sitting in an FBI interrogation cell, huh?"

This couldn't be happening. His dad had no more parental rights on him. This FBI jock couldn't call him. He wouldn't.

Or would he?

His dad couldn't find him again, he just couldn't. Neal's heart hammered painfully against his ribs as he sucked in shallow breaths. He clenched his hands into fists in his lap to stop them from shaking. His right hand throbbed.

"That's enough." The door to the room opened, and Peter walked in.

"C'mon, Burke, don't tell me your siding with the delinquent?" Thayer scoffed.

"Back off," Peter growled.

Neal barely felt Peter gripping his upper arm and pulling him out of the room. The next thing Neal knew, he was standing outside, on the sidewalk. He brought a shaking hand to his shirt collar, trying to slow his breathing.

"It's okay, Neal. Your dad won't find you. I won't let him... Breathe, kid. _It's okay_."

Peter's voice steadied him with its calm, low tone. The shaking eased into sporadic tremors and the air seemed less thick. Neal drew in a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair.

"C'mon, kid, let's go home."

_Home?_

* * *

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter 5 is up. Thank you so much for all your reviews and story alerts; it means so much and it really keeps me going. This chapter took a while to put up, sorry... No particular warnings for this one, maybe some mild angst. A/N I made up the names of the high schools at the end (I'm not familiar with New York). Enjoy..._**

* * *

It had been quite a long and trying day. Too long and too trying for Neal and Peter to be sitting in the Burkes' dimly kitchen at the rather uncivilized hour of two in the morning. Sleep just hadn't come that night.

* * *

The clock on Peter's night stand kindly informed him it was 2:08 am. They'd all gone to bed around 11, Neal included, but Peter had yet to find sleep. Questions he longed to be answered swirled around his head, keeping him awake, tossing and turning.

It had taken a great deal of disguised pleading and sweet talk to convince Hughes to let Neal off the hook. Peter knew it wasn't exactly legal; the kid had to be punished in some way for breaking into the museum. But Peter didn't think he could watch Neal thrown into juvenile hall. Yes, Peter Burke seemed to have a soft spot for the kid, though he'd never admit it. So Neal had got away with only 30 hours of community service, which he would be spending in the FBI file room, sorting through cold cases.  
Peter's blood boiled as his mind wandered back to Neal's interrogation with Thayer. He wanted to deck the man. That afternoon's episode had made Peter realize he and Neal really needed to sit down and talk. He couldn't shake the sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the kid's father. He had no doubt the scars he'd seen on Neal were from the man and Peter felt oddly relieved that Neal was sleeping under their roof now, that he could be there if anything went wrong. He was just doing his job as a federal agent, it wasn't like he cared or anything... But damn it if the terror on Neal's face at the very mention of his father didn't tear at Peter's heart and kick his fatherly instincts into overdrive. God, he'd known the kid for barely two weeks. _Fatherly instincts?_ What the hell was wrong with him?

A soft cry came from the guest room, pulling him out of his thoughts. Peter slid out of bed, mindful of El's sleeping form, and crept down the hallway. Neal's door lay ajar, and he caught a glimpse of the teenager, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

"Neal?" Peter whispered, leaning in through the doorway. The kid's head shot up and he straightened.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I-I was just going to get a glass of water," he replied quietly, looking slightly embarrassed. He sure as hell wasn't telling Peter he'd just woken up from another nightmare.

"C'mon," Peter said, nodding towards the stairs.

And that was how the two ended up sitting across from each other in the kitchen table at 2 am. Neal was peering down at his glass of water, twirling it absentmindedly in his hands. He looked exhausted. His blue eyes were rimmed with red and there were shadows under his eyes. No fifteen year old should look that tired.

"Are you getting _any_ sleep?" Peter began. _Right, now that was smooth._

"What? Uh, yeah, sure."

"Neal," Peter began cautiously, "we need to talk."

"About my dad. I know," Neal said in a quiet, resigned tone.

Peter nodded but suddenly had no idea where to start.

"My mom died four years ago," Neal began, saving Peter the trouble, "but you probably already know that. My dad-he wasn't around much but when he did come home, he was too drunk to really be there." Neal's big blue eyes shined with unshed tears, yet held no self pity.

"He was violent." Neal fell silent, studying his hands in his lap.

Peter waited. There had to be more to Neal's story, and as much as he hated bringing up these awful memories for him, he needed to know to be able to help.

"Did he hurt you or your mom?" There really was no gentle way to ask, no matter how quietly he did so. The question seemed loud and intrusive in the silent room. Neal paled visibly and a single tear slid down his cheek. He barely seemed to notice and it hit the polished wooden surface of the table, glinting in the dim light.

Neal didn't trust anyone. He hadn't been able to trust anyone for a very long time. But right now, sitting across from Peter, in his house, Neal had never felt more safe and never wanted to trust someone more in his life. Which is why he let the memories, the feelings, the hurt, he'd kept so carefully bottled up, all come to the surface.

"A week after I turned 11, my dad came home late one night. He was drunk and angry. I'd never seen him so furious. My mom..." Neal swallowed thickly and clenched his shaking fists under the table, "My mom tried to reason with him, to calm him down. He started hitting her... He just _wouldn't_ stop."  
Neal's voice trailed off and he squeezed his eyes shut at the too vivid memories assaulting him.

He took a deep breath and continued.

"He finally stopped and just left. Mom told me she was okay... There was blood on her face, her hands-," Neal shuddered, "The next day, the hospital she worked at called my school, saying she was badly hurt. When I got there the doctors told me she had internal bleeding. They weren't able to save her..." Neal hung his head, his brown hair falling in front of his eyes and obscuring his face. His shoulders trembled slightly.

"She's dead... because of him..." The broken whisper made Peter's heart ache. He let out a soft breath.

"Neal?" The kid looked up, blinking back tears. He couldn't full out cry in front of Peter.

"Are the scars from him?" Neal went back to staring at his hands in his lap, and nodded.

Peter had barely dealt with kids in his life. But with Neal, he seemed to instinctively know what to do.

"You won't ever have to see him again.""

"How can you be sure?"

"I promise."

* * *

The Burkes fell into a comfortable routine after that night. Living with the teenager around had become their new normal. El loved Neal. She had two nephews a bit younger than him, but they were teen terrors and she felt as if they'd never out grow that phase. Neal on the other hand was easy going and kind, surprisingly so for a fifteen year old. Peter was getting used to it too and El could tell he was fond of the kid. She'd caught him a couple of times lifting his hand to ruffle Neal's hair, but never completely going through with it, letting his hand drop to his side. Neal himself was comfortable with the Burkes, who seemed genuinely happy to have him stay with them. Though he still had some trust issues, he had started to feel better, even though the nightmares weren't completely gone yet.

"Neal, are you still in school?" Peter asked one night as the three of them sat around the dining table.

Neal fidgeted in his chair and El lay a gentle hand on his arm. "Relax, sweetie, Peter and I were just thinking you might need to go back."

"I was. I just haven't been in a while." Neal answered truthfully.

Peter frowned slightly. "What school were you at?"

"St. James High."

El winced imperceptibly. St. James was one of the rougher schools in New York.

"Peter and I were thinking of sending you to Mackenzie High, it's closer and though it's not the best, it'll be better than where you were before. What do you think?"

A small smile graced Neal's features. He'd forgotten what it was like to have people actually care. Neal had always liked school, and before his mom had died he'd been top of his class every year. Afterward, struggling with his father and the foster home, he'd given up on school. He'd gone to class but only rarely. When Moz had offered him the Sarah Carver museum job, he'd stopped going altogether. It felt as if the Burkes were giving him a second chance. _Him_ of all people.

"Neal?" Peter pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Uh, sorry. Yeah, that sounds great, thanks." And he meant it.

* * *

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

_**And now for chapter 6. Sorry for the long wait. Thank you so much for all the reviews and alerts; your feedback is so appreciated and I really like hearing your thoughts on the story. Warnings for this chapter: strong language and some mild violence. **_

_**I hope you enjoy.**_

* * *

Neal had been back in school for a month and a half. He mostly kept to himself, wanting to blend in as much as possible. Having arrived in the middle of the year did not help his case, though. Rumors eventually made their way back to his ears, some of which were partially true; he was the foster kid who had been taken in by a fed and his wife. But to Neal, Peter and El had stopped being just a fed and his wife a while ago.

Some of the rumors on the other hand, were ridiculously far fetched, or just plain hurtful. No he'd never been in prison, and no he had never _killed, mugged, __beat up_ anyone or tried to. He'd also stopped his lucrative activity of pick pocketing for a while now.

So Neal kept his head down and pretended to ignore the sneers and disdainful stares thrown in his direction by other the students.

He was back to getting straight _A_s, excelling in each class. But, though the teachers wouldn't say it aloud, handing him back his perfect test score, they'd throw him poorly masked disapproving looks. No one believed a kid like him could _honestly_ ace a test.

"The kid gets perfect scores on each test... With his history, I have a very hard time believing he's not cheating." Was the talk from the teacher's lounge.

That hurt. Neal decided to not share that bit of information with Peter and El.

* * *

A Friday afternoon much like any other found Neal trudging back to his locker. History period was the last that day, and he pulled out the heavy textbook with a sigh. He was about to close the metal door when it was brutally slammed shut inches from his face.

"What the-?"

"Hey new kid, you gonna stay in your corner all year long?" A voice sneered. Neal looked up to see three jocks in red jerseys towering over him.

"You need something?" Neal rearranged his poker face.

" 'Heard you're the delinquent a fed took in?" The kid in the middle scoffed. The others snickered in unison.

"_Screw you_. You don't know anything about me." Neal kept his voice an even, icy tone.

"What did you just say?" The other boy spat, shoving Neal into the lockers behind him. Neal pushed him back. A fist connected with his jaw, and another gripped a handful of his collar.

"You little shit." The boy gripping Neal growled menacingly, lifting his free hand and curling it into a meaty fist.

Joints popped.

"Bradley!" A girl's voice hissed from behind them. Neal pried his eyes open and stared at the fist frozen in midair, inches from his face.

"Get the fuck outta here, K." Bradley growled and tightened his grip on Neal's shirt. The kid was at least twice his size, and had Neal dangling an inch off the ground.

"No, Bradley, _you_ get out of here." The voice spoke evenly and firmly.

Bradley gritted his teeth and leaned in close to Neal's face. He reeked of perspiration and Neal fought not to gag.

"Don't even think I'm done with you." Bradley snarled. With that, he threw Neal into the lockers behind him. They clanged loudly as Neal's back connected with them, and he slid to the floor in a semi-controlled drop. Pulling himself quickly to his feet, he brushed off his pants and pushed his bangs out of his eyes, cursing the fact that this little episode had drawn quite a crowd.

Bradley had stormed off down the hallway, leaving only Neal, curious onlookers and the girl. Neal just stared.

To say she was beautiful would have been an understatement. To Neal, she was a work of art; long, chestnut hair spilling down her shoulders, face lit by incredible green eyes.

"Sorry about that," she said, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff, "Ever since my brother started senior year, he thinks he's so much better than everyone else."

Neal was pretty embarrassed; by the fact that he'd almost got the crap beaten out of him in front of the entire school, and by the fact that he'd been _saved_ by a girl half his size.

"I'm Kennadee," she extended a hand, the silver bracelets adorning her wrist jingled softly.

"Neal." He smiled and shook her small hand.

"Just steer clear of Brad for now, he can be a real jerk."

Neal smirked. "Thanks for the tip."

"Well," she said, hefting her bag back up onto her shoulder, "See you around?"

Neal flashed her a dazzling smile. "Sure."

Kennadee turned briskly and sauntered back down the hall, cheeks pink and heart fluttering wildly in her chest.

* * *

"Oh my gosh sweetie, what happened?"

He hadn't even heard El come into his bedroom. He'd had his back to the door, and was gingerly pulling his t-shirt off.

"Come here," El said gently. She pulled him into the bathroom, and positioned him in front of the large mirror. Putting a hand on her hip, she pointed with the other.

The left side of his upper back was marred with ugly black and blue bruising that stained his skin from the top of his shoulder down to his ribs.

"It's okay. I just got bumped into," he lied. And failed miserably. El pursed her lips and folded her arms, raising an eyebrow.

"It was just some guy at school-it's fine."

"No it's not, young man. We'll see what your fa- what _Peter _thinks when he gets home."

She blew out a breath when Neal didn't notice her slip up. Of course "your father" was referring to Peter, but she couldn't afford that kind of ambiguity with Neal.

She watched Neal carefully slip a shirt back on, wincing slightly as he did. Anger flared up inside her at the thought of someone hurting Neal.

El and Peter had never really given having children a thought. They were perfectly content with one another, and with the jobs they both filled, they'd never actually found the time to talk about it. But since Neal had come into the picture, living with him and caring for him just felt _right_. She was beginning to wonder what their life without Neal would be like. In fact, she wondered if their life _could _be without Neal now.

* * *

"Jesus, Neal... Who was this kid?" Peter asked, shaking his head as he studied the bruise forming along Neal's jaw line. He sat next to Neal, gently holding the boy's chin with one hand, and carefully inspecting the damage with the other.

Neal inched away from Peter's probing fingers, self conscious.

"It's fine, really."

"Neal." El said firmly. She sat across from him and Peter at the kitchen table.

"First of all, leave that ice pack on, sweetie. Secondly_, it's not fine_. No one has the right to just come up and-and sock you in the face. Please tell us this kid's name."

Neal sighed in defeat, replacing the ice bag against his face.

"He's a senior named is Bradley."

"A senior? Picking on a sophomore?" She huffed indignantly.

"It's fine. He stopped after his sister came up-"

Peter cocked his head to the side, alerted by the sudden change in Neal's tone of voice. A faint, absent smile played across the teenager's lips.

"Sister?"

Neal's cheeks pinked and he cleared his throat.

"Uh yeah. Whatever. So I'm gonna go get cleaned up." He said quickly, slinking out of the kitchen.

Peter fought the grin creeping across his lips and shook his head. El gave a quiet giggle.

"What's so funny, Peter Burke?"

"Teenagers."

* * *

That night, Neal lay flat on his back on his bed in the guest room, that the Burkes had come to call Neal's room.

He stared at the ceiling, unable to get Kennadee's face out of his head. She _was _beautiful. He would find another excuse to talk to her, he decided, smiling to himself.

His cell phone rang, pulling him out of his musings. He dug it out of his pocket and frowned at the unknown caller ID flashing on the screen.

"Hello?"

"Neal?"

Neal bolted upright at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Moz?"

* * *

_TBC_


	7. Chapter 7

**And now for chapter 7. A/N O****n the show, we find out Neal's dad's first name is James, but I'm going to keep the name I've been using from the beginning (Shane Caffrey). Warnings for this chapter: brief strong language, mentions of violence and vivid flashbacks.**

**I thought the idea for this chapter fit with the story and was worth developing, but I'm not too sure about it. Let me know what you think. **

**Thank you so much to all the people who are reading this story, who have favorited it or who are following it. Thank you to all those who have reviewed; hearing your thoughts on the story is awesome, and your feedback is so appreciated. **

* * *

Neal stood, shivering under a street lamp at nearly 1 in the morning. He shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold, scanning the deserted street. He felt uncomfortable, guilty about leaving the house so late at night, without asking Peter and El first.

Finally a figure, shoulders slumped in that familiar way made its way towards Neal.

"Moz," Neal greeted, offering his best friend a small smile.

Moz's lips curled into his usual, fond smirk. "How've you been, kid?"

Neal's expression darkened. "I don't know, how've you been?"

Mozzie closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. "Listen, Neal. I'm sorry-"

"You're sorry?" Neal ran a hand through his hair. "Why did you leave?"

"I really am sorry, kid. I should have told you. I never should have sent you in there in the first place too. It was too risky, and you got caught on tape. I…,"

He paused looking unsure, "I was scared it would lead them back to me."

Neal scoffed bitterly. "I didn't just get caught on tape, Moz. The feds _caught _me."

"_The feds_? " The words echoed harshly down the empty street.

The pair fell silent. Moz shifted nervously from foot to foot. "You didn't tell them anything, right?" Neal shook his head.

"Are you doing okay?" Moz sighed.

Neal glared at him. "Yeah, I'm fine _now_. I've been staying with Peter and El."

"Who the hell are Peter and El?"

Neal took a deep breath, knowing Moz wouldn't like his answer at all. "Peter's a fed. El's his wife…"

Under different circumstances, Neal might have laughed at the way Mozzie's eyes comically bugged out of their sockets.

"Neal, don't screw around with me."

"I had nowhere else to go! So they took me in… Besides, Peter's the one who got me off the hook for the museum job. They were going to throw me in juvi..." Neal's voice trailed off.

Mozzie felt a sigh build up for the hundredth time that night. "I was wondering why you asked me to meet here." He made a vague gesture that encompassed the pretty town houses lining the street. Neal rolled his eyes and glanced over at the Burkes' house. The windows remained dark; he hoped no one had noticed he was gone.

"I shouldn't have left like that, kid. I know what it's like to have no one you can trust. It won't happen again."

"It's nice to have you back, Moz."

* * *

Neal watched his friend disappear around the corner then jogged up the steps to the Burkes' front porch. Slipping his shoes off, he reached for the door knob. Before he could turn it, the door abruptly swung open on its hinges, the porch light flicking on at the same time. Neal stood there blinking in the harsh light, and found himself faced with a very disappointed looking Peter.

"Neal." The tone of the agent's voice made him shrink back subconsciously. "Inside. _Now_."

He followed Peter into the living room. He gripped Neal by the arm and sat him on the couch. Positioning himself in front of the teenager, he folded his arms over his chest, looking for all the world like an angry dad demanding an explanation. Fast.

Neal frowned. "I was just seeing a friend."

"Do you have any idea what time it is? Do you have any idea what it's like for us to wake up and find your room empty? How many worst case scenarios we've been through in our minds?" Peter's voice was getting louder by the second.

_You little shit, you never do anything right._

"I'm s-sorry, I-I should have told you." Neal choked on the words, shrank back the slightest bit.

"We ask very little of you. But one of those things is trust. We need to be able to _trust_ you." Peter was close to shouting now, and he took a step closer to Neal. "Who is this friend of yours?"

_No son of mine would be such a fucking disappointment._

Neal swallowed hard. His heart was pounding painfully in his chest and his vision was blurring around the edges. He blinked fiercely. And suddenly he was back in the dank living room of his old apartment. The smell of beer on his father's breath, the shouting, the stinging blows...

"Neal, I sure as hell hope we're not talking about the friend that "dared" you to rob the Carver museum?" Peter said angrily. Neal didn't respond, and Peter, taking that as a silent assent, threw his hands in the air in exasperation. Had he not been so caught up in his frustrated rant, he would have seen the way Neal was progressively shrinking away from him, blue eyes wide with fear. He would have seen the violent flinch as Peter threw his hands in the air, too close to Neal.

Peter had turned away from the teenager, and was pacing in front of the window. The kid's lasting silence only fueled his anger. He turned around to face him, but the sight he was met with drained all of the frustration out of him.

* * *

Peter had never been good with emotions, let alone his own. Fear, for instance, had always come across as anger. Tonight, Neal had left without asking, without letting them know… He'd never felt more scared in his life, he was sure. His mind had been racing with all the horrible things that could happen to a 15 year old at 1 in the morning in the middle of New York City. He could never forgive himself if something happened to Neal. That's why he'd raised his voice, that's why he'd been so angry. Now, however, he wished more than anything he could change the way he'd reacted.

Neal's face was white as a sheet, his blue eyes wide and unfocused. His whole body was shaking, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. Peter knelt down in front of the distressed teenager and tentatively placed his hands on his smaller shoulders.

"Neal?" He remained unresponsive. "Neal, breathe. It's okay. I'm sorry for raising my voice. I'm sorry, kiddo."

Neal made a small choking sound, something between a sob and a moan.

"P-p-please don't hurt m-me. D-dad, I'm-m s-sorry."

Peter's heart clenched. His anger had triggered some sort of flashback. "No one's going to hurt you, Neal," he tried.

"N-no, no, p-p-please, Dad!" Neal's broken pleading continued and he began to struggle against Peter's grip on his shoulders. "Neal, it's okay, it's Peter." He staggered to his feet, shoving Peter's hands away, his blue eyes still alarmingly unfocused.

"Neal!"

Peter instinctively pulled the kid into a tight hug, bringing the two of them to their knees. He rested his chin on the top of Neal's head.

"Shhh..." Gently, he rocked the boy's shaking form.

To Peter's immense relief, Neal finally stopped struggling and fell limp in his hold, the desperate gasping dying down to little hitching breaths, the shaking to occasional tremors.

"Peter?" Came the quiet, broken whisper.

"I'm here."

Peter felt Neal nod against his chest. He didn't let go of him.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. Just… Just ask me next time, ok?" _Don't ever scare me like that again. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you._

"Okay," Neal whispered into Peter's shirt. "Okay."

* * *

"You should have woken me up, honey," El said, as she poured Peter a cup of coffee.

"He snapped out of it pretty quickly, and he seemed okay afterwards." Peter ran a hand over his face with a sigh. "I overreacted, I should have known."

"Honey." El sat down next to him at the kitchen table and cupped the side of his face with a gentle hand. "You couldn't have known. Besides, he wasn't supposed to be wandering off like that at night."

Peter couldn't shake Neal's haunted gaze from his mind.

"He just looked so scared. I - he needs help." _I want to help him_. _I want to make him ok._

"I know." She smiled reassuringly, "We'll help him."

* * *

Neal sat on the school steps, waiting for Peter to pick him up. He had expected things to be awkward after his freak out in front of the agent last weekend; Neal had felt pretty embarrassed. He hadn't had a violent panic attack like that in a while. They used to happen often after his mother died. Peter had sat him down afterwards and the two had talked about it. Surprisingly, it had been far from awkward. Neal had felt that now familiar, safe feeling and Peter had let him know, in his own way, that he'd be there when he needed it.

_And_ that he was grounded for sneaking out at 1 am.

"Hey, Neal," a familiar voice came from behind him. He stood and turned around to face Kennadee, unable to contain the smile that crept across his lips.

"I was wondering if maybe you—well, um…" she began, and blushed slightly, her beautiful green gaze dropping to the ground. Neal found himself thinking she looked pretty darn cute like that. She laughed quietly and began again. "Are you free tonight?"

* * *

Peter pulled the car into a vacant spot near the school entrance. He spotted Neal on the steps. With a pretty young girl. He watched Neal smile as she laughed.

Neal pushed up his shirt sleeve and checked his watch. Technically he was still grounded and Peter would never let him go out, even if it was a Friday night. His phone rang suddenly, the caller ID flashing Peter's number.

"Hey, kiddo. How are you?" Peter asked, watching Neal through the windshield.

"I'm good. Where are you?"

"I'm running late tonight," he lied. "You think you can make it home by yourself?" He smirked at the way Neal's face lit up.

"Yeah, I'll manage." Peter could just hear the smile through Neal's voice.

"Be home in time for dinner, ok?"

"Ok, see you then, Peter."

"Bye, Neal." Peter hung up and shook his head, smiling.

A few months ago, if someone had told him how much he'd come to love this kid, Peter never would have believed them. Tonight would be a good time to sit down and work on the adoption papers with El, he decided.

* * *

_TBC_


	8. Chapter 8

_**I'm sorry for the long wait... No particular warnings for this one. **__**What did you guys think of the end of 4.04? How many people is Neal going to lose..? **_Thank you so much for the favorites, the reviews and the story alerts. I'm glad you enjoyed chapter 7, I wasn't sure what you all would think of it. I hope chapter 8 doesn't disappoint.

* * *

"I'd better get going."

Kennadee lived in a tall apartment building fourteen blocks from the Burkes' house. The two teens stood facing each other in the entry way. It was a nice place, with a sleek, modern glass elevator and white marble floors.

"I had fun," she said with a smile. Neal couldn't have agreed more, but tuned his enthusiasm down to a nonchalant nod with the ghost of a grin. He wished he could stay longer, just to hear her laugh and her voice. Just to watch those beautiful eyes.

"See you around?" Neal said, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning to leave.

"I—" The words caught in her throat. _Don't leave just yet_.

Kennadee unexpectedly reached out and grabbed his arm. Neal turned around in surprise, and in a flurry of lavender perfume and soft hair she placed a gentle kiss on his cheek and sauntered back toward the elevator. Peering over her shoulder, she gave him a radiant smile, the glass doors slid shut behind her and she was gone.

Neal stood dumbfounded, and raised a hand to his cheek where the feeling of her soft lips still lingered. She really was a work of art.

When he came through the Burkes' the front door, Elizabeth had just finished setting the dinner table.

"Hi, sweetie," she greeted warmly. Neal stared at her with wide eyes. She glanced down at her watch and winked at him. "Right on time."

"Neal?" Peter's voice came from upstairs. Neal washed his hands quickly, swiftly caught the dish towel El threw at him, and met Peter at the bottom of the stairs.

He smiled fondly at Neal and mussed his hair.

"Thanks, Peter."

"For what?"

"Letting me walk home." Peter raised an eyebrow and Neal's lips curled into grin as they shared their private joke. The kid was just too damn smart.

"C'mon. Dinner's ready."

* * *

That evening found Neal and the Burkes lounging in front of the TV. It had become their new normal. Neal had felt uncomfortable at first, invading the household that had once been complete with just two. He was stretched out on the couch, one hand draped over the edge, petting Satchmo. El was curled up on the other end and Peter settled in his favorite arm chair. Unfortunately for El and Neal, the agent had claimed control of the remote and was absently flipping channels.

"Honey, could you just decide on a movie to watch? There has to be something good on…" El tried.

"Okay, how about this one; _The Cincinnati Kid_."

"Seen it," Neal said. "Same," El chimed in.

"Alright," Peter changed the channel again. "_To Catch a Thief_?"

Neal perked up. "A classic." Peter narrowed his eyes at the kid. Neal smirked and fell silent.

"_Heat_?"

It was Peter's turn to disagree. "Saw it. No one solves a case like that in real life; it's never that easy," he muttered. El smacked a palm to her forehead and Neal rolled his eyes.

"Aha. Perfect. A Yankees game."

"Peter!" El and Neal groaned in unison.

Neal jumped as his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. The perfect excuse to escape the baseball game and the die-hard Yankees fan in the room. The unknown caller ID flashed on the screen. Moz again.

"Sorry," Neal muttered and slipped out of the room. Satchmo, deprived of his source of affection, looked longingly at the door Neal had disappeared through, then trotted over to El to be petted. Peter frowned slightly.

"Stop worrying, Peter," El said gently. He shook his head slowly and stood up.

* * *

Neal stood in the dark kitchen, staring out the window.

"Mozzie. I can't."

"Neal. You're an amazing painter! All you have to do is copy it. I promise it's safe, okay?"

"You said that last time. Remember how that turned out?"

"Neal, do this for me. You have a gift; use it."

"I'm not sure that I want to use it like this."

"Think about it, Neal." The line went dead. Neal let out a long sigh, sliding the phone back into his pocket. No matter how much Moz meant to him, he couldn't do this. If Peter ever found out… An unfamiliar oppressive feeling built up in his chest all of a sudden, and his eyes stung with tears. He couldn't betray Peter. His trust meant so much. _So much_.

It was the first time in so, so long that someone cared, the first time someone was there to greet him when he got back from school, the first time someone actually seemed glad to see him. He drew in a shuddering breath as tears clouded his vision. _C'mon, pull yourself together. _

"Neal?"

Neal whirled around, blinking fiercely. _Oh god_… Peter stepped into the dim kitchen, a look of disappoint and—sadness?—obscuring his features, the shadows accentuating his furrowed brow.

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough," Peter said curtly.

"It's not what you think—"

"It's not? Why don't you explain then?" The thought of Neal betraying him stung. A lot more than it should. But god, he loved this kid. Not that he'd ever tell.

"I wasn't going to do anything, Peter. I swear."

"Who's Mozzie?" Peter had already guessed, but he prayed Neal would be the one to tell him the truth.

Neal hesitated, torn. His eyes flickered from the window back to Peter, catching the light. The clear blue glistened with unshed tears._  
_

"You-and the rest of the FBI, now- know him as Jake Crenshaw," Neal answered quietly. Peter could see Neal's inner torment reflected in his vibrant eyes; the kid didn't want to betray his friend…and didn't want to betray Peter.

"From the Sarah Carver museum?" Peter sighed, his expression softening.

"Peter, please," Neal began, then the words died down. He swallowed audibly. Peter waited patiently. A fire truck, sirens blaring, screamed past the window, momentarily illuminating their faces with a tumultuous red and white glow. Then it was gone, and the kitchen fell into darkness again.

"Please don't ask any more. I don't want him to get into trouble. He was my only friend. The only person I could count on. He just asked me to help him with something, but I said no." _For El. For you._

Peter sighed. The FBI agent in him knew it was his duty to get all the information on Neal's friend and track him down. But another side of him, one he'd only just recently became acquainted with, spoke out loud and clear in his mind too. After all, he had no leads whatsoever on this Crenshaw guy and couldn't coerce the kid into telling more. His heart ached for Neal, chest constricting with an overwhelming sense of protectiveness and possessiveness he had never felt before—one only a parent feels toward their child.

"I trust you, Neal."

* * *

Neal hadn't seen Kennadee all week. Standing at his locker, he couldn't help but wonder if he had imagined the whole thing. Maybe she didn't actually like him; she was hard to read.

One thing Neal was sure of; he wanted to see Kennadee again. Hear her laugh, watch the way her eyes lit up when she smiled. His cellphone buzzed once in his pocket, and he groaned inwardly, hoping it wasn't Mozzie. Instead, he was greeted with a text from Kennadee.

***Turn around***

"Hi," her voice filled his ears and a grin spread across his face.

"Hey, K. What's up?"

She offered him a kind smile. She was clad in tight jeans and a flowing, pink flower print top, her long hair tumbling down her right shoulder.

"How was your week?" She asked, her smile losing a bit of its light.

"It was okay. Could have been better, but I never heard from you, so…"

She blushed then frowned playfully at him. "I didn't hear from you either."

"Okay, okay. We both blew it."

"Blew what?"

Neal stopped. Nothing had really happened last Friday. The bell rang, and he cursed inwardly. _Ask her out_, he urged.

"Well, I've got to run…" He began and mentally kicked himself.

Kennadee's heart thumped loudly in her chest. _It's now or never. Right? _She leaned forward, and cupping her hand to his cheek, kissed him.

Neal stood there, shocked, then leaned into the kiss.

After a few seconds, they broke apart, Kennadee's cheeks pink and her green eyes bright, Neal completely lost in them.

"I should go," she whispered, and disappeared around a corner.

Neal stood there another couple of minutes, a silly, distant smile playing across his lips. He was definitely late to Science period now.

* * *

Neal could hear Satchmo barking happily from the other side of the door. He let himself in and was nearly knocked over by a golden blur, wagging its tail excitedly.

"Hi, Satch," he laughed, "I'm happy to see you too."

"I'm home," Neal called out. Surprisingly, it felt comfortable to be able to say that, and he smiled to himself.

"We're in the kitchen," came Peter's muffled voice, and Neal followed it, Satchmo on his heels.

Peter and El sat at the kitchen table, a disarray of paperwork spread out in front of them.

"Hi sweetie, how was your day?" El smiled up at him. Her smile lacked its usual glow, and seeing that Neal had noticed, it faltered visibly.

"Good. What's going on?" He asked quietly, apprehensive. Something clicked in his brain and he connected the dots; the papers, El's attitude, Peter's silence. His face fell. They were sending him back. The thought of it_ hurt..._ A lot more than he had imagined it would.

Peter spoke up. He looked uncharacteristically nervous. Or guilty? Neal couldn't tell.

"Sit down, kiddo. There's something we'd like to talk to you about."

* * *

_TBC_


	9. Chapter 9

**_And now for chapter 9. No particular warnings here. Thank you for all the reviews, favorites and story alerts. I hope you enjoy._**

* * *

Did it really come down to this? Neal couldn't help but wonder if he'd done something wrong. Maybe Peter and El hadn't forgiven him for sneaking out that night after all. Pushing aside the grief building up in his chest, he pulled out the chair facing the Burkes and sat down.

Peter cleared his throat a couple of times, picked up one of the papers in front of him, set it down, then picked it up again. El placed a hand on his arm and gave him a small nod.

"Neal. El and I—we would like… We want to adopt you."

Neal froze. _What?_

Peter and El exchanged worried glances.

"Maybe this is too soon, I'm sorry—" El began.

"No," Neal whispered.

"No?" Peter's whole world seemed to hang in the balance, the one syllable Neal had just uttered threatening to send it crashing to the ground.

"No, it's not too soon. It's fine. I mean, it's _great_."

All of sudden, Neal was having a hard time controlling his emotions. Tremors overtook him, and tears rolled freely down his cheeks. Was it possible? He'd long ago lost faith in the supposed good in people. And now suddenly, he'd been given a reason to believe again. That reason came in the form of two improbable surrogate parents, and one joyful golden lab.

El let her eyes flutter closed as a tear drop slid down her own cheek. She stood and, joining Neal at the other side of the table wrapped him in a warm hug. Peter watched the two, and ran a hand over his mouth. _Peter Burke does not cry._

He took a deep breath as El regained her seat next to him. Neal's bright eyes watched them expectantly, glistening and blue as ever.

"You're sure you're okay with this?" El asked, tracing a finger under her lower eyelids to wipe away the tear tracks.

Neal tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, failed, so nodded his eager assent.

"We have an appointment with the foster home and social services next week. To do this legally, and make sure we have every chance of getting a positive response, there will be a lot of paperwork," Peter explained, the procedural FBI agent in him coming to the surface. Neal had to smile at the familiarity. Peter smiled too. "But we'll make it happen."

A smile spread across El's face too. She slid her arm through Peter's and rested her head on his shoulder.

Neal found himself blinking away tears again. He didn't trust his voice at the moment, but spoke up nonetheless.

"Thank you," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "This…means so much."

Peter smiled fondly.

"To me too, son."

* * *

Daylight was slowly draining from the sunset stained sky above them. Neal and Kennadee sat on the swings, and had the deserted park to themselves.

A streetlamp flickered on above them, lighting a bright orange halo around the swings, strands of Kennadee's hair glinting golden.

"Tell me about yourself," she asked quietly.

Neal smiled as she blinked rapidly, and blushed, as if second guessing herself.

"There's not much to tell really," he answered light heartedly, watching her relax.

"What about your parents?"

Seeing the way Neal's face fell, Kennadee wished she could swallow the words back up.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—never mind, " she dropped her gaze to her Converse clad feet, a strand of hair falling into her eyes.

"Hey," Neal brushed the stray lock out of her face with a gentle hand. She looked up at him again.

"What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about them."

Neal sighed.

"My mom... My mom died when I was 11… I haven't seen my dad since. He wasn't exactly your number one dad. Let's just say, I'm better off where I am now."

Kennadee felt a pang of sadness for Neal. He stared off into the distance, a sad, melancholic look clouding his features. Just how much had those blue eyes seen?

"And where are you now?"

She smiled fondly at the way Neal's face lit up, a sharp contrast with the look etched onto his face just seconds ago.

"I live with Peter and El now… They want to adopt me."

Kennadee let her smile widen. She had no idea who Peter and El were, but it was obvious Neal cared deeply about them. And somehow she felt they cared for him too. "That's great, Neal."

"Tell me about your parents, K."

"There's not much to tell really," she said evenly, "My parents got divorced when I was 8. I live with my mom during school and I spend school breaks and summers with my dad in California." She paused.

"My mom's not there much, she gets home late from work and leaves before I'm up in the mornings. That leaves me with my older brother for company."

She scrunched her face up in mock annoyance and Neal laughed.

Kennadee glanced down at her watch. "I'd better get going," she said, wishing all the while she didn't have to. Spending time with Neal had become one of the things she most looked forward to lately. She didn't feel so alone anymore. And, now having learned a little bit more about him, she could guess more accurately-if only just a little, what went on behind those amazing eyes.

The two stood. Neal reached out and pulled her into a gentle kiss.

"I'll walk you home."

* * *

The date of the appointment at the foster home was slowly getting closer; three days from today. Neal was having mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, he was excited and relieved that he was looking at starting a new life with Peter and Elizabeth—with people who cared. On the other hand, his anxiety had kept building since they had announced they wanted to adopt him. So many things could go wrong. What if the people at social services refused? What if there was a problem with the paperwork? Neal had so much on his mind; his thoughts were running in every direction, bumping into one another, bouncing off or shattering.

Winter was drawing to its end in New York, and as the days got warmer and longer, Peter let Neal walk home when he asked. He was halfway to the Burkes' house when he nearly collided head on with Mozzie.

"Whoa, Neal, watch where you're going."

"Oh, hey, Moz." Neal said and kept walking. Mozzie fell into step beside his young friend.

"Neal, can we talk?"

"I'm not doing any more jobs, end of story."

"That's not what I wanted to talk about—" Moz replied, rolling his eyes. Neal nodded, but kept walking.

"Neal, c'mon, stop!" Moz stepped in front of Neal and brought him to a halt by laying his hands on the teen's shoulders.

It was Neal's turn to roll his eyes. "What is it, Moz?"

"I wanted to apologize."

Neal raised an eyebrow and finally turned his eyes up to meet his friend's. Mozzie looked sincere.

"I'm sorry for pushing you. I should have known after what happened at the museum but I was acting stupid, _again_. I shouldn't have asked you to forge that painting." An infectious grin crept across Mozzie's face. "I'm glad you said no, kid."

Neal grinned back at him and shook his head in amused disbelief.

"I'm thinking of pulling out of it all too." Moz said, after a thought.

Neal smirked and pulled his best friend into a hug, clapping him on the back. Moz chuckled and returned the hug.

"So, kid, how is life with Mr. and Mrs. Suit?"

"Peter and El are going to adopt me." Neal said, his grin fading into a more sober expression. Moz looked surprised for a moment, then a small, fond smile lifted the corners of his lips.

"I'm glad to hear it, Neal," he said, squeezing the kid's shoulder, "But do me a favor. Don't become a little Suit."

Neal laughed out loud.

* * *

El and Neal sat side by side on the couch that night. Peter sat in his arm chair, papers spread across his lap, worrying a pen between his teeth.

"Gosh, this is a lot of paperwork—even for me," he said, putting the pen down and looking up at Elizabeth.

She brought a finger to her lips and motioned to Neal, who had nodded off next to her, slumping until his head came to rest against El's shoulder. Peter chuckled fondly at the sight. He stood up and made his way over. Ever so gently grasping Neal by the shoulders, he carefully laid him down on the couch. The kid mumbled something incoherent, but remained asleep.

"This will be good," El said quietly, taking Peter's hand as they stood watching Neal sleep, "For him," Peter met eyes with his wife, "For us."

The phone in the kitchen rang, and Peter hurried to get it so it wouldn't wake Neal. El let her eyes linger on his peaceful, sleeping face then followed her husband into the other room.

"Yes, this is Peter Burke."

A worried look clouded his brow, and El approached her husband, slipping into his arms and resting her head under his chin so she could hear the person on the other side of the phone.

"I'm Mrs. Stan, in charge of the adoptions at St. Jude's foster home. I'm calling about Neal's adoption. There's been a slight… problem."

El stilled and felt Peter's whole body tense.

"What kind of problem? With the paperwork?"

"No… Not at all. It's… It's difficult to say—"

"Tell me."

El searched for Peter's hand and squeezed it tightly. Mrs. Stan's next words tore the breath from both their lungs.

"Someone spoke up against the adoption. Neal's father."

* * *

_TBC_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10 is up! Thanks for all the support guys! I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think; your feedback is always appreciated.**_

* * *

_4:18 am_

The Burke household lay in slumbering silence. The foundations would creak occasionally, but none of the sleeping occupants stirred, long ago accustomed to the noises. Satchmo was curled up at the foot of Peter and El's bed. Husband and wife lay intertwined under the down comforter; Peter's soft breathing ruffling El's hair with each exhale.

A scream shattered the peaceful silence.

Peter bolted upright, the wispy reminiscence of the peace and quiet that had reigned just seconds ago raining down in broken shards around him. For the third time that week, he threw the covers back and darted down the hall to Neal's room. There was loud crash as he reached the room, and he flung the door open. The bedside lamp lay in broken pieces on the floor, and Neal lay, thrashing and tangled in the sheets on the bed.

"Neal," Peter called gently. Neal remained unaware, twisting and turning, arms feebly trying to free himself of the tangled mass of sheets. Peter sighed, and sitting down on the edge of the bed, smoothed the kid's damp hair back away from his warm forehead.

"What's going on, honey?" El's worried voice came from the doorway.

"Another nightmare."

El's brow furrowed in further concern. "This has to stop, Peter. It's the third time this week," she whispered, bending down and gathering the pieces of the broken lamp from the floor, "I just wish it hadn't turned out this way. What could Neal's father possibly want with him now? Look what it's doing to him…"

Peter sighed and they fell silent; Neal's ragged breathing echoing harshly in the quiet confines of the room. He gave a final, heart breaking whimper, then stilled.

"Come on back, Neal," Peter coaxed gently, disentangling the sheets from Neal's sweat drenched chest and arms.

"Mmh, P'ter?" Neal drew in a shuddering gasp and blinked up at him sluggishly.

"I'm here. You okay, kiddo?" He asked, cupping a hand to the side of Neal's neck. The kid was too warm. El, wonderful, perfect El had disappeared and already returned with a towel, a glass of water and a plastic thermometer.

Peter stood so El could take his place on the side of the bed. Neal obeyed, alarmingly pliantly, to all she asked.

"Honey?" Removing the thermometer from Neal's mouth, El spoke softly, the worry back in her voice. "101..."

"Neal? How do you feel?" Peter asked, sitting back down next to El.

The kid blinked up at him owlishly. "Not so good," he admitted, voice just above a whisper. "Head hurts…"

"You've been thinking too much," he replied, the flicker of a smile playing across his lips. Neal gave him a weak smile.

"Yeah..."

Neal didn't want to have to think about this anymore. Just when he thought things were finally starting to work out... Peter sighed at the pained look clouding Neal's sweaty brow.

"We'll get through this, Neal. And- he won't come near you. You hear me?"

If possible, Neal went a shade paler and his eyelids fluttered as he swallowed thickly. Peter's firm hand on his shoulder steadied him.

"I trust you, Peter."

* * *

"Hi," Kennadee greeted him with a bright smile, and leaned in to kiss him softly on the lips. She drew back; his lips felt so warm. Too warm.

She held him out at arm's length, "You're sick."

Peter and El had not been happy to see him up and about that morning. El gently tried to reason with him, while Peter used the strict parent card on him. Neither had worked, but it had amused Neal to watch their rendition of good cop, bad cop. He just couldn't bear to stay at home all day, laid up in bed. There was too much to think about. His thoughts ran out of control at night when he wasn't even aware of it, so he knew he couldn't face a day where he had nothing but his musings to keep him company. Even so, he was beginning to question his judgment now; his shirt was damp with cold sweat and his brain seemed to be sloshing around in a thick liquid.

"Neal." Kennadee pulled him back to reality. She drew him close and placed a gentle hand on his forehead. "You've got a pretty high fever, you should really be home. Why did Peter and Elizabeth let you come to school?"

"They didn't. But I came anyway," he chuckled soflty, eyes distant and overly birght. Kennadee shook her head. _Oh, Neal._

"Let's go," she said and before he could protest she was pulling him out of the school doors and down the steps.

"Where are we going?" Neal was panting with the sole effort of putting one foot in front of the other. Kennadee kept a steadying arm around his waist.

"My place," she stated simply and kept walking.

Neal silently thanked heaven Kennadee's apartment wasn't far from school because by the time they got there, he was precariously drooping against the doorway, the frame the only thing keeping him upright.

She pulled him inside, making a bee line for her bedroom. He was admiring the cream color scheme and Victorian furniture when the world tilted as she gently lowered him to lie down onto the bed. He gratefully sank down into the pillows, resting his burning face and neck against the cool sheets. He vaguely felt her pulling his shoes off.

"Be right back," she said, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, "Don't go anywhere."

He laughed quietly as she disappeared through the doorway, but stopped quickly, screwing his eyes shut against the throbbing it aggravated in his head.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, Kennadee was sitting cross-legged on the bed next to him.

"Take this." She handed him a glass of water and two Advil pills. He took them, then fell back against the pillows. Kennadee lay down next to him, propped up on one elbow, and gently ran her hands through his hair with the other hand.

"Neal?" she said after a while.

He hummed quietly in response, eyes closed.

"You've been acting…off…lately. Is everything okay?"

Thoroughly alarmed by the way the little color he had left drained from his face, she cupped a hand to his cheek.

"It's my dad." He spoke softly, voice a pained whisper. "He spoke up against the adoption. We have to take it to court now…"

Kennadee returned to running her fingers through his hair.

"Peter and Elizabeth are going to win."

"I hope so… But my dad—he's manipulative…" Neal's voice trailed off.

"Why don't you live with him anymore?"

Neal let out a shuddering sigh. Slowly, hands trembling, he rolled his t-shirt up to reveal his chest.

Kennadee's eyes filled with tears. Ever so gently, she traced a finger over one of the many white, raised scars dispersed across Neal's chest.

"I'm so sorry…" she whispered, helping him pull his shirt down. She leaned down and tenderly kissed his lips, wondering how anyone could even think of hurting this blue eyed _angel_ lying beside her.

* * *

Kennadee sat in her desk chair at the side of her bed, watching Neal sleep. His hair was damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. She leaned over and carefully fished his cellphone out of his pocket. Scrolling through the address book, she found the number she was looking for.

"Hey, Neal, how are you doing?" a man's voice came over the end of the line. It was gentle, filled with fondness and today, tinged with a bit of worry.

Kennadee cleared her throat. "Um, hi, Mr. Burke?"

"Yes? Who is this?"

"My name is Kennadee, I'm a…friend of Neal's. I think you need to come take him home."

An hour later, Peter and El stepped out of the elevator on the 19th floor of the chic New York high rise.

"I knew we should have insisted further this morning. He's fifteen: he does not make the rules." Peter huffed half-heartedly as they knocked on the door to 314.

Moments later, it swung open, revealing a petite, green eyed brunette.

"Mr. and Mrs. Burke? I'm Kennadee." She shook each of their hands and ushered them in. She instantly began babbling about how she'd been worried about how sick Neal had looked this morning, and thought that bringing him here was the best idea, instead of disturbing the Burkes at work and leaving Neal at school... El's heart immediately went out to all 5'2" of this sweet, lively little teen. And she had a feeling—a good one, that Kennadee and Neal were a bit more than just friends.

She led them to her bedroom and Peter sighed sadly at the sight of Neal, pale face flushed and bathed in sweat, sleeping deeply and fully clothed. The three stood at the foot of the bed in silence. Finally, Peter bent over the bed and carefully gathered Neal's listless from in his arms. He didn't even so much as stir. Kennadee was the first to speak up again. She hadn't expected her voice to waver so much. But this was Neal they were talking about...

"Mr. and Mrs. Burke? Please… Don't let Neal's dad get custody. You two are the best thing that has happened to him. He needs you. And he loves you so much."

* * *

Two weeks later, the Burkes received the date for the trial. Neal had been sick for three days after they brought him home from Kennadee's. She'd spent an afternoon with him during those three days, to keep him out of his own head for a while. Neal was feeling significantly better now.

It was a sunny Friday afternoon. Neal sat at the kitchen table, sketchpad in front of him. He'd been drawing peacefully for an hour or so when Satchmo trotted into the kitchen, leash in his mouth and dragging across the floor. He nudged Neal in the leg and sat down expectantly, tail thumping against the floor.

"Hang on, Satch." Neal said, as he whisked the pencil across the paper in expert, fluid movements.

Satchmo whined softly, then resorted to jumping up and placing his paws on top of Neal's drawing. The teen laughed.

"Okay, fine, I'll take you for a walk."

Satchmo's ears perked up and the golden lab bounded into the hallway. Neal locked the door and had to run down the stairs to keep up with the dog.

They had got six blocks away from the house and turned onto a busier street when a big, square shouldered man nearly knocked him over. Satchmo growled instinctively as Neal stumbled back a few steps.

"Hey." Neal grunted, frowning up at the man.

He wore a black baseball cap that momentarily shadowed his face. With a big, calloused hand, the man removed the hat.

"Hello, Neal," came the rough, unwelcomingly familiar voice.

Neal choked on the very air in his lungs, heart hammering in his chest.

"You thought I wouldn't find you, son?"

* * *

_TBC_


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 11 already. Wow. No particular warnings for this one. Thank you to all the people who have been following from the beginning, and to those who joined after. I'm not too happy with this chapter, hopefully the next one won't be as bad. Feel free to let me know what you think.**_

* * *

Neal took another step back. Satchmo growled again then quieted, observing the scene with his ears pricked. Shane Caffrey scoffed at the look of sheer terror on his son's face.

"W-what do you want?" The words came out much weaker than Neal had intended.

"Now, is that a way to greet your own father?" Shane gave a crooked smile. He advanced and held out a hand.

Neal bolted.

He easily slipped away from his father's grasp and dashed back up the street, Satchmo close on his heels. Before skidding around the corner, he heard the deep voice yell.

"I will find you again, Neal. You can run all you want. I will find you."

Neal didn't stop running until he reached the Burkes' front porch. He let himself in and flattened his back against the door, sliding to the floor. His entire body shook from the exertion, his chin fell to his chest as he dragged in sharp, panicked breaths. He sat there until Satchmo came and nudged him in the shoulder.

"Some guard dog you are," Neal laughed shakily.

* * *

"_He did what_?" Peter was practically yelling. El sat at the kitchen table next to Neal, holding his hand in hers.

"Dammit," Peter cursed loudly, pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips. He stopped in front of the table and leaned forward, laying one palm flat on the surface.

"I swear, Neal, if that man ever comes near you again—" Peter took a deep breath, curling the hand into a fist. He resumed his pacing.

El studied Neal's face. He was pale, his blue eyes wearily following Peter's anxious pacing. She ran a gentle hand through his hair and he leaned into the touch just a little.

"I'm sorry we weren't there, Neal," she said. "He had no right to come and find you like that; we still are legally taking care of you. They'll use this against him."

Peter watched El gently speaking to Neal, watched him close his eyes tiredly as he listened to her soft voice. He took a deep breath to calm his anger. With Shane Caffrey's history, there was no way in hell he could gain custody again. Right?

* * *

"Wow," Kennadee breathed. She sat cross legged across from Neal on his bed. "How did he find you?"

"I have no idea," Neal said quietly. "I just want this all to be over."

Kennadee couldn't blame him. Things had been really looking up for him, before _this_. Now the future seemed a lot less sure, a lot less bright.

"I have something for you," Neal slipped off of the bed and went over to his desk. Opening one of the drawers, he pulled a sheet of drawing paper out and resumed his spot across from Kennadee.

He held out the paper face up, smiling as her eyes lit up and she delicately took the paper from his hands, as if handling something precious and fragile.

"Neal," she whispered, "this is beautiful…"

It was a life-like pencil drawn portrait of her face, all the shadows perfectly placed, the bright, twinkling in her eyes perfectly conveyed.

"You have an amazing gift, Neal," she leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

A knock on the door interrupted them. No- on the _window_?

Neal frowned and peered over the window sill. A pair of black horn-rimmed glasses and brown fedora stared up at him, smiling innocently.

"Mozzie?"

Neal dragged the window open, and let his friend tumble-quite gracefully, to his credit, into the room.

"Hey, Neal. Oh, hi—"

"Kennadee," she placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh at the sight of the little, quirky guy that had just materialized in Neal's bedroom.

Neal rolled his eyes. "K, this is Mozzie. Mozzie this is Kennadee."

"_Enchant__é_," Mozzie said, complete with a dramatic bow and flourish of his hat; Kennadee giggled.

"You know, we do have a front door, and Peter and El aren't home."

"I need to maintain my physique, and fast getaway skills."

"Why would you need fast getaway skills?" Kennadee laughed. Moz and Neal fell abruptly silent. Her smile faded as she gave them a questioning look.

"Was there anything you needed in particular?" Neal asked quickly.

Mozzie shook his head, smiling mischeviously, "Just dropping by."

"Time for you to go, Moz," Neal said, shoving his friend back towards the window.

"Oh c'mon, Neal, I'm sure she'd love to hear about some of your lucrative adventures as a mini con!" Moz called as he slipped back out the window and down the fire escape.

Neal heaved a sigh as he slid the window shut. He turned to find Kennadee sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling her shoes on.

"I'd better get going," she said. Her whole demeanor had changed. She looked distant, apprehensive almost. "What was Mozzie talking about? Were you some kind of con artist before?" She asked, sounding faintly incredulous.

Neal ran a hand through his hair. "I've done some things I'm not too proud of. But that was a while ago. Before Peter and El. Before you," he reached out a hand to draw her close, but she pulled back.

"What's wrong?" Neal was taken aback.

She bit her bottom lip. _A con? Really? _What could Neal have possibly done? How many lies could he have possibly told?

"How do I know you're being honest then?" she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Kennadee…" Neal said breathlessly.

There it was. It was bound to come back and bite him in the ass one day.

Yes, he'd told a lot of lies before. To the foster home, to the social workers, to his father… But never to a girl. He'd never even dared lying to his mom. He always told the truth, even if she were simply asking him if he was okay.

No, he'd never lied to Kennadee.

"Of course, I'm being honest—" He took a step towards her but she turned to leave.

"I have to go," her voice broke, and she covered her trembling lip with her hand.

Then she was gone. And Neal didn't even try to stop her. She was right. He didn't deserve her after all.

* * *

Peter frowned as he watched Neal pick at his dinner. He'd been distant since they had got home, and barely said two words to them. Peter had wondered if Neal was worrying about his father, but the raw fear he'd seen before lacked in his demeanor. It was replaced by something akin to disappointment and sadness.

Neal politely helped clear the dishes and wash up in the kitchen, then disappeared up the stairs and into his room. Peter followed.

When El looked up from washing the dishes at the sink she found Peter still standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands on his hips and hanging his head. She caught his gaze and nodded in the direction of Neal's room, mouthing _Go talk to him_.

Peter sighed, in turn, mouthed _I love you_ and climbed the stairs.

He found Neal sitting on his bed, staring out the window.

"Hey, Neal, can I come in?"

Wordlessly, the kid slid over, making room for Peter and Neal felt the bed dip as he sat down beside him. He could feel the man's eyes on him.

"What's up, kiddo?"

There was no use in lying with Peter.

"Something wrong?"

Yeah. _About a million things_. Like the fact that his dad wanted god knows what with him. Or that Kennadee was gone, thanks to Mozzie's "slip" of the tongue.

Her name was the only thing that came out of his mouth though, in a weak, pathetic whisper.

He heard Peter shift next to him, and sigh.

"You remind me a lot of myself when I was fifteen," Peter began. Neal had to swallow past the lump forming in his throat. Peter smiled and shook his head at some private memory.

"There was this girl. She and I got very close until one day, it all ended for something insignificant and stupid. I was devastated."

Neal furrowed his brow as he tried to picture Peter crying over a girl. It didn't work.

"Let me tell you this. I don't even remember her name today. There were girls after her, until I met El. Then everything else just…" Peter made a vague gesture with his hand and a fond smile spread across his lips.

Neal studied the floor. Peter's advice was kind, but it was hard to see eye to eye about this right now; he wondered if he'd ever feel better. The worst part, was feeling like he'd betrayed Kennadee with things he'd done before he'd even met her, and even though his dishonesty had never been directed towards her.

"She thinks I lied," Neal blurted out.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Because of what I did before…"

Peter turned so that he faced Neal.

"Look at me." Neal shifted and met Peter's surprisingly soft and sincere gaze. "What you did before is in the past, there's nothing you can do to change it. You have a gift, Neal, and I'm not talking about the way you draw and paint. You're smart. Smarter than the kids your age. You're hyper aware of how people work, their little quirks, their flaws and weaknesses. Which is why you used to use to that to your advantage."

Peter was right. All Neal could do was stare, blue eyes wide, and listen on.

"The thing with a gift—only you can chose the way you use it. And yes, I've only known you for a while, but in these three months I don't think I've ever seen a person change more than you have. It's all pretty new to you, because being out there alone, that was the only way you saved yourself from the bigger sharks. Now, you know what's right and what's wrong; you've been _honest_."

Neal gulped back the tears brimming. Peter _cared_. And Peter had actually taken the time to see him for who he truly was, not just as another problem child for social services to deal with.

Peter ruffled Neal's hair and smirked. "And I don't care what anyone says about it."

* * *

"Neal, sweetie? Peter and I have to run some errands, you're welcome to come if you like," El called from the hallway.

"I'll stay with Satch," he replied, joining her on the front porch. Satchmo, hearing his name, gave the back of Neal's knees a nudge.

"Honey, let's go," El called. Peter slipped through the doorway past Neal, pulling his shoes on as he went. He bent over to scratch Satchmo's nose.

"Make sure this one doesn't get into trouble, " he told the dog. Neal rolled his eyes with a smile and Satcmo barked in response.

He watched as the Burkes piled into their car and drove away.

Satchmo trotted before him through the house to the back door, nails clicking against the glass as he jumped up.

"Okay, okay," Neal muttered, unlocking the door and leaving it slightly open. A blur of golden fur pushed past his legs and bounded outside, barking happily.

Neal grabbed his sketch pad and pencil and curled up on the couch. The graphite tip connected delicately with the paper, and soon, under the easy, practiced strokes appeared the outlines of two faces.

He vaguely heard the front door click some time later. No, maybe not; they'd only just left.

Suddenly, his sketch pad was torn from his grasp and carelessly thrown to the floor.

"You're still drawing? You know I feel about that, son."

* * *

_TBC_


	12. Chapter 12

**_Hi again. Chapter 12 is up. This was a really hard chapter to write, emotionally at least... So, now that I have babbled about myself a little, let's get on with the story. I hope the characterization and reactions are correct; let me know what you think. Warnings for this chapter: strong violence, strong language. Really, really angsty._**

* * *

"Do you think Neal's doing alright?" El asked as they drove back home. Peter paused thoughtfully as he held her hand over the middle arm rest.

"He's doing better."

"We'll be there for him," she began. Peter met her eyes; they glistened with emotion. "We'll be good parents for him."

He smiled and gave her hand a squeeze.

As they pulled up in front of the house, El leaned forward in her seat, squinting through the windshield. "Is that Satchmo on the sidewalk?"

Peter was already out of the car and kneeling by the dog, who stared forlornly down the street. "What are you doing out here, Satch?" Peter muttered to the golden lab, glancing down the sidewalk too.

"Peter." The tone of El's voice lay an icy finger across his lungs.

The door to the house lay ajar, the rug in the hallway crumpled. Peter dashed into the living room. The coffee table was overturned; magazines splayed everywhere, a vase shattered to pieces in the corner.

"Neal!"

He already knew Neal wouldn't answer. His heart pounded painfully in his ears.

"Oh god…" He turned around at the sound of El's broken whisper. She knelt on the floor beside the couch, holding a sketchpad close to her chest. Neal's sketchpad.

Peter joined her on the floor and gently lifted the book from her shaking grasp. On the page, staring back at him with perfectly sketched eyes, were his and El's smiling faces.

* * *

Peter felt an overwhelming sense of relief when Diana's voice came over the line.

"You work on Sundays now?" Peter asked a bit breathlessly.

"It fit with Chrissie's shift at the hospital. What can I do for you, boss?"

"It's Neal…" he bit the inside of his mouth, as the panic welled up in his chest again. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled.

"Boss? You okay?"

"Diana, Neal's father took him," Peter heard the faint intake of breath on the other end of the line.

"What can I do?"

"I need you to pull up everything NYPD, the DOJ, the FBI, _anyone_ has on that bastard. And I need you to get a signal on Neal's cell."

"I'll call you as soon as I've got anything."

* * *

"Let go of me. Please…" Neal struggled against the beefy hand gripping his collar. Shane gave a cold laugh and harshly dragged his son out of the back seat of the car.

"Remember this place?" The big man hissed, gripping a fistful of Neal's hair and jerking his head up to look at the tall building. "_This_ is where you belong, Neal. Not in that fucking, posh town house. You belong here, with your _father_."

Neal's eyes widened and he choked back a sob. It was the run down, red brick apartment building he'd grown up in. Neal had sworn he'd never come back here. Painful flashbacks assaulted him; he gripped the sides of his pounding head and blinked rapidly, trying to block them out. His eyes slipped out of focus as the scenes unfolded in front of him again, in painfully sharp detail. His father gripping his mother by her long brown curls and dragging her down the hallway. Her screams pierced Neal's ears and a cry escaped his own lips. The time he'd been gruffly thrown into his room, his head striking the bed post; how he listened in a half dazed state, all the sounds amplified by the hammering in his head, to his mother's heart wrenching sobs. The_ blood, _staining her favorite blouse_, _hidden in the corner of the bathroom the night before she died.

"I'm your father! And you just let them take you away without a second thought, you ungrateful little shit."

The hand on his collar tightened as he was hauled along like a rag doll. His knuckles scraped against a wall, tearing at the soft skin. Abruptly it all stopped, sucking him back into the here and now with a keening gasp. Neal felt himself being thrown to the ground.

The fridge opened and slammed shut, glass bottles clinking. He heard the sickeningly familiar hiss of a beer being opened. Loud, heavy footsteps echoed through the apartment. They stopped where he was crouched on all fours, head hanging.

"Get up," Shane growled.

"I... can't..." Neal whispered. A fist brutally collided with the side of his face.

His last coherent thoughts were for Peter and how he wished he'd told him how much he meant to him.

* * *

"Diana, please tell me you've got something."

Peter heard a sigh, and he waited, pacing back in forth in front of the living room window.

"I got all the files you asked for. There's a lot of dirt on this guy—with the DOJ, with NYPD. There's a big file under his name with Internal Affairs."

"How come none of this turned up when we first started looking into Neal's past?" Peter growled, fighting to keep his anger in check.

"I don't know, boss. We weren't looking for this stuff, we only had Neal's file."

"Still no trace on the phone?"

"I think it's switched off… His dad may have found it. He's bound to know those tricks."

Night had fallen outside, the streetlamps flicking on and casting orange shadows through the trees lining the street. Peter balanced the phone between his shoulder and his ear and scrubbed his face with both hands.

"Okay, Diana. Call me if you get a trace—"

"Boss! I just got a location, the GPS came on!" Peter gripped the phone with white knuckles. "Neal's at the last address we have for Shane Caffrey."

Peter jotted down the street name and number. "Thank you, Diana, I owe you one."

"Be careful. He still licensed to own a fire arm. You should wait for NYPD."

"It can't wait, Diana. This is Neal we're talking about."

* * *

Neal sat up gingerly on the filthy carpet. He was back in his old room. Everything was in the same state as the day he'd been collected by his first social worker, Anna. The bed stood on its faded and scuffed wooden frame, the stuffing bleeding out of the stained mattress in various places. The bookshelves on the wall, albeit empty now, were still in the same place and his tattered desk remained in the far right corner.

Neal dragged himself to sit up against the wall, the peeling wallpaper crinkling against his back. He shoved his hands into his pockets and began searching around frantically. His first attempts came up empty but finally his fingers closed around the plastic of his cellphone. It was off. With shaking fingers he switched it on and stuffed it back in his pocket, thanking heaven his dad hadn't found it. Neal shuffled to the bedroom door on all fours and placed his ear against it. First there was silence, then the loud snoring came, mixing in with the blaring sounds of the TV. Neal held his breath and opened the door as quietly as possible. His lithe form and catlike steps helped him slip silently all the way to the front door.

It was only when his hand curled around the door handle did he realize the snoring had stopped.

* * *

"Peter, please be careful," El said, gripping his hand in hers a little while longer. Her eyes were puffy and red from tears that refused to cease overflowing since that afternoon.

"Wait here. I love you," Peter whispered, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

El watched him pull out onto the street and drive off, red tail lights glaring. She still hugged Neal's sketchpad close and prayed Peter would bring their boy home safe and unharmed.

Peter's mind was a chaotic whirlwind of worst case scenarios and fleeting bloody images. If Shane had taken Neal; it was to be with him, not to hurt him all over again, right? Peter shuddered at the thought and gripped the steering wheel tighter. Outside his windows, the neighborhoods progressively deteriorated, buildings getting higher and filthier, streets narrowing and darkening, stretching the distance between this and the Burkes' pretty tree lined street to light years.

By the time he turned onto the right street, Peter's heart was pounding painfully against his ribs, adrenaline pumping ice cold blood through his veins. _Please, let Neal be safe and sound…_

* * *

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" A voice snarled from behind him. A big, meaty hand gripped him around the nape of his neck and threw him back into the living room. The momentum of it sent Neal crashing into the coffee table, overturning it. There was the tremendous crash of many bottles falling to the floor and shattering against one another.

Instinctively he threw his hands up. "Stop! Please!" He choked out through the pain blossoming in his ribs.

"Why are you trying to leave? Again!" Shane bellowed, towering over his son. The stench of beer was sickening. "First, you let the government take you away. Now this? I did a little background check on your _friends_ over there, they're FBI. You're a fucking failure."

The man's face was red with rage and the effects of the alcohol. He stumbled slightly as he bent over and grasped Neal by his shirt. Nesl struggled against the iron grip, to no avail. Even drunk, the man had three times his son's strength and stood twice his size.

Neal felt himself dragged up off the floor until his feet dangled. Shane's lips curled back in disgust.

"Shane! Please, stop!" Neal cried out.

The man stilled and furrowed his brow in slow, alcohol induced confusion.

"_Shane_? You called me by my first name? I'm your father!"

"No. You're not. You stopped being my father a while ago." Neal spat.

Shane Caffrey looked hurt for all of one second. "You really are your mother's son. You're fucking pathetic."

He viciously backhanded Neal across the face. Once. Twice. Three times. He didn't stop.

" 'Know what? You're right. No son of mine would be such a fucking disappointment." Neal heard Shane hiss, too close to his ear.

He vaguely felt himself collapse to the floor. He thought it was over, until a boot connected with his chest. After a while, Neal lost track of his time, of his surroundings. All he knew was that the blows never stopped.

* * *

Peter took the stairs three at a time, one hand on his gun. He came to a stop in front of the battered and faded blue door. The brass numbers hung crookedly. Eerie orange light crept across the musty carpet and peeling walls in the hallway. Peter stood with his ear pressed up close the doorway, chest heaving from the exertion and with the adrenaline coursing through him.

"Shane Caffrey? FBI!" He shouted. There was no reply from the other side, only the muffled din of a TV. Peter drew in a centering breath and burst through the door, gun drawn.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight he was met with.

Shane Caffrey's imposing form stood over Neal's inert one, laying in a crumpled heap at the man's feet. The light from the television danced across Neal's face; there was blood everywhere. It matted Neal's hair and soaked his forehead and lips.

Peter's hand tightened on the gun, head spinning with an all-consuming rage he'd never experienced before.

"Mr. Caffrey, step away from him," Peter hissed through gritted teeth.

A wild, desperate laugh erupted from the man. "You are not taking _my_ son from me again."

"You have no right to call him your son anymore."

Shane whirled around. The second gun came out of nowhere, but Peter was already pulling the trigger on his. A bullet whizzed past him, tearing a clean path through his shirt and jacket sleeve, grazing his shoulder.

Peter's bullet, on the other hand, found its target spot on, and smacked into Shane's left shoulder. The man stumbled drunkenly forward and his knees hit the floor with a dull thud. Peter roughly dragged him as far away from Neal as the confines of the small, dingy apartment would allow and wrestled the man into cuffs. The TV still blared in the background, making it impossible to hear anything past that and the roaring in his ears. Peter located the plug and yanked it out of the wall.

Neal hadn't moved an inch through it all. The agent collapsed to his knees beside the kid, ever so gently rolling him onto his back.

"Neal...? Oh god, Neal."

The shock of blood all over Neal's face gruesomely contrasted with his ghostly pallor. Peter pulled out his phone, and dialed 911. After shakily rattling off their location and requesting NYPD back up and an ambulance, he turned his full attention to the unconscious teen. An awful wheezing sound came from his lungs, and every so often his breath would hitch in his chest.

Peter carefully pulled Neal's limp form into his arms, so that he rested in a semi upright position against with his head against Peter's shoulder. The hitching stopped and the wheezing quieted the slightest bit. Neal's face was so calm.

"Neal, c'mon, kiddo, open your eyes for me," Peter coaxed quietly. Neal peaceful face remained slack, eyes closed. Tears stung Peter's eyes and he held Neal closer, smoothing his blood stained hair back with a shaking hand.

"Please, kiddo, come on back," the words spilled out of his mouth, voice tight and strained, "Don't give up now. You've got so much life left in you… " A tear fell and hit Neal's cheek, tracing a clear path through the blood.

There was so much blood. It speckled Neal's collar in large droplets. There were patches of it staining his shirt around his ribs. His face was the worst. _How could anyone do this? _Neal's left eye was swelling shut, and his lower lip was split and bleeding. His forehead was soaked in the dark crimson, dripping from cuts that disappeared beneath his hair line.

"Please, Neal… El and I want to be here for you. You mean so much to her-," Peter choked back a sob, "I love you, kiddo. So, so much."

* * *

_TBC_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Hi there. Chapter 13 is up. This installment had been written out for a while, but I kept coming back on it and changing things here and there. I think this is the chapter I most enjoyed writing, and that took the most work and time. I hope you enjoy reading it. Warnings for some angst. I can't believe I got this far with a story. It was a fun journey and it was amazing to share it with you all.**_

* * *

Peter cared deeply about a very small handful of people in his life. There was Elizabeth; he'd never felt a love stronger than the one he felt for her. There were his parents, but they'd been gone for a while now. Jones and Diana were his partners; he'd take a bullet for them.

And then there was Neal. The kind, blue eyed fifteen year-old had come into his life in a whirlwind of chaos and unknown. After a while, he'd stopped tripping over the boy-sized Converse, carelessly strewn across the hallway. He'd chuckle at the pencils and charcoal sticks that turned up everywhere in the house. And at the end of particularly grueling days at the office he'd light up at the thought of the smiling, bright eyed boy he still had to pick up from school.

Peter let his forehead rest against the cool window. Below him, New York City shimmered and blinked in a blur of neon shades. The world under him, zipping by in perpetual movement, was a sharp contrast to the room he stood in, where time seemed to have stopped. The lights were dimmed to a soft, peaceful glow. Thick silence hung in the air, punctuated by the faint whoosh of machines and the soft beeping coming from a heart monitor.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He should have been there.

Peter raked a hand through his hair. He watched his breath fog up little patches of the glass then seep away. The same deep hollowness, the same painful ache filled his chest as prepared himself to turn around. He knew the sight he would be greeted with would be the same he'd been watching over for the past fourteen hours. Still, the little glimmer of hope lingered in the back of his mind. He cursed; it only made the pain worse.

000

El rubbed her tired eyes as she stepped out of the elevator. The nurse at the desk gave her a soft smile. She returned it in an attempt at normalcy, but it faded quickly as she continued down the grey and blue tiled hall to room 1012. Peter had sent her home the night before with the promise of joining her in a few hours, but when she had awoken around six that morning, she'd found his side of the bed cold and empty. She'd got only a couple hours of fitful sleep, punctuated by bloody dreams and Neal's pleading eyes searching for her in the darkness.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, breathed in and out slowly a couple of times, and entered the room. Peter was asleep in one of the uncomfortable plastic hospital chairs, slumped over the bed, holding Neal's limp hand in his. El placed a gentle kiss on Neal's forehead and went to wake Peter before he misaligned his spine.

* * *

Kennadee burst through the stairwell door and out into waiting area on the 10th floor of the hospital. A nurse pointed her to the room and she tore down the hall, sneakers slipping and squeaking on the tiles. She stopped in front of 1012, fingers lingering over the door handle. The blinds were closed in the observation window. She took a deep breath and walked in.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she caught sight of Neal's inert form. The number of wires sprouting from his chest and arms was frightening. His eyes were closed, dark lashes standing out against the ghostly white of his skin. Dark bruises stained his left cheekbone and hairline, and butterfly bandages held a cut above his right eye together. His lips were drained of color, the bottom one was split. His left wrist was in a cast and she could see the heavy bandaging around his ribs through the thin hospital gown. The soft rise and fall of his chest seemed nothing more than an illusion of life against all the damage. A sob caught in her throat as she slowly approached the bed and pulled up a chair. She took his limp hand in hers and held it to her lips.

"Neal's not a liar." Kennadee jumped at the sound of Mozzie's voice. The little guy stepped out of a corner and into her line of sight on the other side of the bed.

"He would never lie to you, Kennadee." Mozzie's face was drawn, lines of worry creasing his brow and his eyes rimmed red behind his glasses. "He went down a couple of wrong paths before, but he's not a bad person. Everyone gets lost." His voice was soft and sad.

Grief, cold and bitter, built up in her chest. She was surprised by how painful it was. A tear slid down her cheek and onto Neal's hand.

"How long… How long has been like this?"

"Twenty seven hours," Mozzie replied, their eyes locking, and Kennadee saw that he'd counted the minutes in each one.

"They say he was lucky—" the little guy swallowed audibly; _lucky_ really wasn't the word he would have used. "The bruises should fade soon… The broken ribs and bruised lung will take longer to heal though…"

She stood, blinking rapidly against the hot tears clouding her vision, and bent and kissed Neal's soft hair, the only place free of the deep, marring contusions.

"I'm sorry, Neal," she whispered in his ear, "Come back to us when you're ready."

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep…_

Neal furrowed his brow as he strained his ears to recognize the sound. There was something under is nose, something cool and plastic. He tried to lift a hand to touch it but the command wouldn't travel from his sluggish brain. His throat felt dry and was vaguely sore. His mind flashed back to the apartment. _His father. _He could still feel his huge hands gripping his collar. Neal wanted to scream. A sob choked him as tears stung his closed eyes and slid down the sides of his face. He didn't want to die.

Peter's head shot up as the steady beep of the heart monitor picked up in volume and as a small whimper escaped Neal's lips.

"Neal?" he spoke tentatively, leaning over the bed railing.

Neal was stirring, his brow furrowed, tears streaking his pale cheeks. Peter, heart thudding in his chest, reached out and gently cupped the uninjured side of Neal's face. Neal drew in a gasp, which _hurt_, and blearily opened his eyes. _Everything_ hurt. His chest, his wrist, his head. A face came into focus above him.

_Peter. _

A pained moan escaped his lips as a shiver of relief coursed through his sore body. He lifted a shaking hand and tugged feebly on the nasal cannula.

"Leave it on, kiddo," Peter soothed, gently pulling his hand away, "It's there to help."

Neal opened his mouth to say something but no sound came out.

"It's okay," Peter whispered.

Neal vaguely heard a door open; a female voice gasped. "Neal, sweetie, you're awake!" El appeared next to Peter at the side of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Neal ran his tongue over the cut on his bottom lip and let his eyes flutter shut, already feeling drained.

"I'll get a doctor," Peter's worried voice floated above his head. Neal heard his footsteps and the door swing shut again.

"Neal? Can you open your eyes for me?" El's soft voice reached his ears. For her, he pried his eyes open with what seemed a tremendous effort.

"H-how long was I…?" he asked; his throat felt like sandpaper.

El looked pained. "Three days."

"'M sorry," Neal whispered, casting his glance down. El put two fingers under his chin and lifted it so their eyes met.

"Don't you dare apologize, Neal," she whispered forcefully, tears filling her eyes. "What happened is _not _your fault."

Peter was back, and resumed his spot next to El. "The doctor will be in in a minute, kiddo," he said, and ran a careful hand through Neal's hair. He leaned into the touch.

"There's something we want to tell you," El said and a smile, albeit watery around the edges, lit her face. Peter slipped his arm around her waist and gave Neal a reassuring smile. She pulled a brown envelope stamped with a legal seal from her bag. Sliding out the papers in it, she placed them in Neal's hands. The words blurred and swam together before him as he squinted down at it. He vaguely wondered how much painkillers they were actually giving him. His eyes were drawn to his name, typed in big print at the bottom of the page: _Neal James Burke_.

"He'll never come near you again, Neal. He's put away for a long, long time now." Peter said, brow creasing slightly in residual anger.

"Things _will_ be better. We'll be okay… You'll be okay." El's soft voice spoke.

And Neal found himself truly believing someone for the first time in his life. He fell back against the pillow and peered up at them through half closed eyes. A small, exhausted smile graced his lips.

"'Love you guys," he murmured sleepily through the haze of medication, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

* * *

Neal was released from the hospital a week later. The road to recovery would be a long one; the bruises on his face and chest would fade soon, but the four broken and two cracked ribs were another story. Peter felt a pang of guilt each time Neal would stand up too quickly and hug his arm to his chest, eyes screwed shut in pain. He slept on the couch for the first week and a half, too weak to tackle the stairs yet. Some nights, Neal would wake up screaming, the last images of a violent nightmare burning in the back of his retina, but Peter would be there, holding him close, and the fear would wither away.

Two weeks after he'd left the hospital, Kennadee turned up on the Burkes' front porch. Peter answered the door.

"Hi, Kennadee," he greeted.

"Hi, Mr. Burke… Is Neal here? C-can… Could I maybe see him?" She shifted nervously from foot to foot.

"Of course. Neal?" Peter called into the house, "There's someone at the door for you."

Peter disappeared back behind the door, closing it halfway. Kennadee stood on her tiptoes, struggling to see what was happening inside. Then Neal was there, leaning against the door frame, looking pale and surprised. His blue eyes were wide.

"Kennadee?" he said breathlessly.

She bit her lip, hard. She couldn't just break down and cry in front of him; _he_ knew what pain was, she did not. She took a deep breath.

"I came to see you when you were…" Her words caught in her throat and a tear slid down her cheek. _Oh c'mon, Kennadee. _

"I shouldn't have reacted like that. I owe you an apology."

Neal smiled sadly at her and extended his good hand. She took it and he gently pulled her close. She rested her head under his chin, mindful of his injuries.

"It's good to have you back," he said quietly and she gave a shaky laugh.

"I'm just glad _you_ made it back…"

They held each other in silence.

Movement in the doorway caught Neal's eye. Peter stood in the hall with his arm around El's shoulder, the two of them watching him with goofy smiles on their faces.

Neal widened his eyes in disbelief. _Go away! _He mouthed, gesturing with a dismissive flick of his hand. Peter laughed and El pulled him into the kitchen, back out of sight.

"They're watching us, aren't they?" Kennadee muttered into Neal's shoulder.

He laughed, and it hurt. But the warmth that spread through his chest from it largely transcended the physical discomfort. If the least of his worries were his parents spying on him and his girlfriend, Neal could live with that.

* * *

_TBC in Epilogue_


	14. Epilogue

_**So here it is. The last chapter. I'm kind of sad it's over, but I had such a wonderful time writing this and an even ****better time sharing it with ****you. I would like to give the biggest thank you to everyone who read this st****ory, reviewed it, followed it, favorited it and even to those who gave it a quick look and dropped it afterwards. Your support and feedback was awesome. Thank you.**_

_**'Until next time. Enjoy.**_

* * *

_6 years later_

It was a beautiful July morning in New York City. The sun shone through the trees lining the calm, quaint street and a soft breeze occasionally came to rustle their leaves. A young man with bright blue eyes and wavy brown hair made his way up the steps of the Burkes' town house, dragging a suitcase behind him. He set his bags on the front porch and stood there for a while scanning the familiar street. His hand drifted to the pocket of his jeans and he dug out a folded piece of paper. Thoughtfully, he ran his finger over the dark blue seal at the top of the page.

_Letter of acceptance._

He read it over in his head and wondered for the hundredth time what Peter would think.

* * *

"I'm home," Neal called, lugging his suitcase through the front door, and kicking it shut behind him with his foot. He dropped his bags to the floor with a thud and drew in a deep breath. It was good to be back. The familiar surroundings brought calm and contentment. _Home_.

There was a soft jingling and the sound of nails clicking against the hardwood. Satchmo's golden head peeked out from the living room and he bounded around the corner excitedly at the sight of Neal. He barked playfully, very happy to see his best friend had returned.

"Welcome back, son," a wonderfully familiar and deep voice came from the kitchen doorway. Peter stood there, smiling fondly at the sight of Neal and Satchmo, remembering the time not so long ago when the golden lab nearly reached Neal's full height when he rested his paws on the kid's hips. Neal had got significantly taller since then.

"Dad," Neal smiled, blue eyes lighting up, as Peter pulled him into a warm hug. The kid was as tall as he was now. They broke apart, and Peter held him out at arm's length.

"You look good, kiddo. Your mom and I are so proud of you—"

"Neal, sweetie!" Elizabeth's warm voice resounded as she joined her boys in the hallway. "I'm so happy to see you." She threw her arms around her son. "Neal Burke, you are getting too tall," she scolded fondly, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck and gently pulling down to kiss him on the forehead.

"My college graduate…" Elizabeth whispered, still not believing it.

"Any plans yet?" Peter asked.

"Oh, Peter, leave him be, he just finished school."

"Actually, yes." Neal flashed them his mischievous, sparkling smile and Peter mentally palm smacked his forehead. What could he possibly be up to now?

"The FBI does have a division I find rather… interesting. White Collar crimes could use my _expertise_."

Elizabeth gave a fond laugh and Peter eyes bugged out of his sockets.

"You want to join the FBI?" Peter asked carefully, biting back a wide grin as warmth—no, unmistakable _pride_, spread through his chest. Neal pulled the letter from his pocket and placed it in his father's hand. He laughed quietly as Peter's eyes grew even wider as he discovered the very official FBI seal at the top of the page. Neal couldn't have wished for a better reaction. El giggled watching Peter trying to contain his own excitement.

Neal's hundred watt grin broadened.

"Quantico awaits."

* * *

_The End_


End file.
